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STORIES 

IN     .       . 
GREY 


NEW  FICTION  AT  6s. 

FERGUS  HUME        -       -    The  Blue  Talisman 
STANLEY  PORTAL  HYATT  Makers  of  Mischief 

SHAN  BULLOCK       -       -    Hetty— The    Story 

of    an     Ulster 
Family 

MURRAY  OILCHRIST       -    The  First  Born 
M.  P.  SHIEL    -       -       -    The  Pale  Ape 
SEWELL  FORD       -       -    Torchy 
ELEANOR  M.  INGRAM    .    John  Aliard 
F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH     -    Kennedy  Square 


NEW  FICTION  AT  2s. 

IN  A  COTTAGE  HOSPITAL.    A  Novel. 

GEORGE  TRELAWNEY 

An  epoch-making  novel.  It  is  hoped  this  book  will  do  for 
the  sick  poor  of  England  what  "The  Jungle"  did  for  the 
Chicago  Workers.  This  is  not  a  novel  for  little  people  nor 
for  fools. 

A  GIVER  IN  SECRET    -       -    THOMAS  COBB 

This  is  a  new  novel  never  before  published  and  first 
issued  at  2s.  net. 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


By 
BARRY  PAIN 


T.    WERNER    LAURIE 

CLIFFORD'S    INN 
LONDON 


ft  15 -& 


A  " 

V 


RDADV 

NOV 


/ 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


SMEATH    .             .             .  .  .  i 

THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA  .  .42 

BURDON'S  TOMB  .            .  .  .  .69 

THE  UNKNOWN  GOD      .  .  .  .in 

THE  LAST  CHANCE         .  .  .  .116 

HER  PEOPLE        .             .  .  .  .134 

ROSE  ROSE          .            .  .  .  .       145 

SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER  .  .  .155 

THE  DOLL           .             .  .  .  .162 

Too  SOON  AND  Too  LATE  .  .  .181 

LOCRIS    OF   THE    TOWER    .  .  .  .194 

MINIATURES         .            .  .  .  .215 

LINDA      .             .             .  .  .  .272 

THE  GOOD  NAME            .  .  .  .291 

THREE  DIALOGUES           .  -.  .  .       295 


Stories   in    Grey 


SMEATH 
I 

PERCY  BELLOWES  was  not  actually  idle,  had  a 
good  deal  of  ability,  and  wished  to  make  money. 
But  at  the  age  of  thirty-five  he  had  not  made  it. 
He  had  been  articled  to  a  solicitor,  and,  in  his 
own  phrase,  had  turned  it  down.  He  had  neglected 
the  regular  channels  of  education  which  were  open 
to  him.  He  could  give  a  conjuring  entertainment 
for  an  hour,  and  though  his  tricks  were  stock  tricks, 
they  were  done  in  the  neat  professional  manner. 

He  could  play  the  cornet  and  the  violin,  neither 
of  them  very  well.  He  could  dance  a  breakdown. 
He  had  made  himself  useful  in  a  touring  theatrical 
company.  But  he  could  not  spell  correctly,  and 
his  grammar  was  not  always  beyond  reproach. 
He  disliked  regularity.  He  could  not  go  to  the 
same  office  at  the  same  time  every  morning.  He 
was  thriftless,  and  he  had  been,  but  was  no  longer, 
intemperate.  He  was  a  big  man,  with  smooth 
black  hair,  and  a  heavy  moustache,  and  he  had  the 
manners  of  a  bully. 


STORIES  IN  GREY 

At  the  age  of  thirty-five  he  considered  his 
position.  He  was  at  that  time  travelling  the 
country  as  a  hypnotic  entertainer,  under  the  name 
of  Dr  Sanders-Bell.  At  each  of  his  entertainments 
he  issued  a  Ten  Thousand  Pound  Challenge,  not 
having  at  the  time  ten  thousand  pence  in  the 
world. 

He  employed  confederates,  and  he  had  to  pay 
them.  It  was  not  a  good  business  at  all.  His 
gains  in  one  town  were  always  being  swallowed  up 
by  his  losses  in  another.  His  confederates  gave 
him  constant  trouble. 

But  though  he  turned  things  over  for  long  in  his 
mind,  he  could  see  nothing  else  to  take  up.  There 
is  no  money  nowadays  for  a  conjurer  without 
originality,  an  indifferent  musician,  or  passable 
actor.  His  hypnotic  entertainment  would  have 
been  no  good  in  London,  but  it  did  earn  just 
enough  to  keep  him  going  in  the  provinces. 

Also,  Percy  Bellowes  had  an  ordinary  human 
weakness ;  he  liked  to  be  regarded  with  awe  as  a 
man  of  mystery.  Even  off  the  stage  he  acted  his 
part.  He  had  talked  delirious  science  to  agitated 
landladies  in  cheap  lodgings  in  many  towns. 

Teston  was  a  small  place,  ajid  Percy  Bellowes 
thought  that  he  had  done  very  well,  after  a  one- 
night  show,  to  cover  his  expenses  and  put  four 
pounds  in  his  pocket.  He  remained  in  the  town 
on  the  following  day,  because  he  wished  to  see  a 
man  who  had  answered  his  advertisement  for  a 
confederate,  "  Assistant  to  a  Hypnotic  Enter- 


SMEATH  3 

tainer"  was  the  phrase  Mr  Bellowes  had  used 
for  it. 

He  was  stopping  at  the  Victoria  Hotel.  It  was 
the  only  hotel  in  the  place,  and  it  was  quite  bad. 
But  Percy  Bellowes  was  used  to  that.  A  long 
course  of  touring  had  habituated  him  to  doubtful 
eggs  and  indistinguishable  coffee.  This  morning 
he  faced  a  singularly  repulsive  breakfast  without 
quailing.  He  was  even  cheerful  and  conversational 
with  a  slatternly  maid  who  waited  on  him. 

"  So  you  saw  the  show  last  night,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  did.  And  very  wonderful  it  was. 
There  has  never  been  anything  like  it  in  Teston, 
not  in  my  memory." 

"  Ah,  my  dear.     Well,  you  watch  this." 

He  picked  up  the  two  boiled  eggs  which  had 
been  placed  before  him.  He  hurled  one  into  the 
air,  where  it  vanished.  He  swallowed  the  other 
one  whole.  He  then  produced  them  both  from  a 
vase  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"  Well,  I  never  !  "  said  the  maid.  "  I  wonder  if 
there's  anything  you  can't  do,  sir  ? " 

"Just  one  or  two  things,"  said  Mr  Bellowes, 
sardonically.  "  By  the  way,  my  dear,  if  a  man 
comes  here  this  morning  and  asks  for  me,  I  want 
to  see  him."  He  consulted  a  soiled  letter  which 
he  had  taken  from  his  pocket.  "The  name's 
Smeath." 

Mr  Smeath  arrived,  in  fact,  before  Bellowes  had 
finished  his  breakfast,  and  was  told  he  could  come 
in.  He  was  a  man  of  extraordinary  appearance, 


STORIES  IN  GREY 

He  was  a  dwarf,  with  a  slightly  hunched  back. 
His  hands  were  a  size  too  large  for  him,  and  were 
always  restless.  His  expression  was  one  of 
snarling  subservience.  At  first  Bellowes  was 
inclined  to  reject  him,  for  a  confederate  should  not 
be  a  man  of  unusual  appearance  and  easily 
recognizable.  Then  it  struck  him  that,  after  all, 
this  would  be  a  very  weird  and  impressive  figure 
on  the  stage. 

"Ever  do  anything  of  this  kind  before?"  he 
asked. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Smeath.  "  But  I've  seen  it  done 
and  can  pick  it  up.  I  think  I  could  give  you  satis- 
faction. You  see,  it's  not  very  easy  for  a  man  like 
me  to  find  work." 

All  the  time  that  he  was  speaking,  his  hands 
were  busy. 

"When  you've  finished  tearing  up  my  newspaper," 
said  Bellowes. 

"  Sorry,  sir,"  said  the  man.  He  pushed  the 
newspaper  away  from  him,  but  caught  up  a  corner 
of  the  tablecloth.  It  was  frayed,  and  he  began  to 
pull  threads  out  of  it,  quickly  and  eagerly. 

"  Ever  been  hypnotized  ?  "  Bellowes  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Smeath,  with  a  cunning  smile. 
"  But  that  doesn't  matter,  does  it  ?  I  can  act  the 
part  all  right." 

"  It  matters  a  devilish  lot,  as  it  happens.  And 
you  can't  act  the  part  all  right,  either.  My 
assistants  are  always  genuinely  hypnotized.  I 
employ  them  to  save  time  on  the  stage.  After  I 


SMEATH  5 

have  hypnotized  you  a  few  times,  I  shall  be  able 
to  put  you  into  the  hypnotic  state  in  a  minute  or 
less,  and  to  do  it  with  certainty.  I  can't  depend 
on  chance  people  from  the  audience.  Many  of 
them  cannot  be  hypnotized  at  all,  and  with  most 
of  the  others  it  takes  far  too  long.  There  are 
exceptional  cases — I  had  one  at  my  show  only 
last  night — but  I  don't  often  come  across  them. 
Come  on  up  with  me  to  my  room." 

"  You  want  to  see  if  you  can  hypnotize  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  know  I  can.  I  simply  want  to 
do  it." 

Upstairs  in  the  dingy  bedroom  Bellowes  made 
Smeath  sit  down.  He  held  the  bright  lid  of  a 
cigarette-tin  between  Smeath's  eyes  and  slightly 
above  the  level  of  them. 

"  Look  at  that,"  he  said.  "  Keep  on  looking  at 
it.  Keep  on  !  " 

In  a  few  minutes  Bellowes  put  the  tin  down,  put 
his  ringers  on  Smeath's  eyes,  and  closed  them. 
The  eyes  remained  closed.  The  little  hunchback 
sat  tense  and  rigid. 

An  hour  later,  in  the  coffee-room  downstairs, 
Bellowes  made  his  definite  agreement  with 
Smeath. 

"  You  understand  ?  "  said  Bellowes.  "  You'll  be 
at  the  town-hall  at  Warlow  to-morrow  night  at 
seven.  When  I  invite  people  to  come  up  on  the 
platform,  you  will  come  up.  That's  all  you've  got 
to  do.  Got  any  money  ? " 

"Enough  for  the  present."      Smeath  began  to 


6  STORIES  IN  GREY 

pull  matches  from  a  box  on  the  table.  He  broke 
each  match  into  four  pieces.  "  But  suppose  that  to- 
morrow night  you  can't  do  it  ?  " 

"  There'll  never  be  a  day  or  night  I  can't  do  it 
with  you  now.  That's  definite.  Now,  then,  leave 
those  matches  alone.  I  might  be  wanting  one  of 
them  directly." 

After  Smeath's  departure,  Percy  Bellowes  sat 
for  a  few  minutes  deep  in  thought.  In  that  dingy 
room  upstairs  he  had  seen  something  which  he  had 
never  seen  in  his  life  before,  something  of  which  he 
thought  that  various  uses  might  be  made.  He 
picked  up  the  newspaper,  and  was  pleased  to  find 
that  Smeath's  busy  fingers  had  spared  the  racing 
intelligence.  Then  he  sought  out  the  landlord. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  a  fancy  to  put  a  few 
shillings  on  a  horse.  Do  you  know  anybody  here 
it  would  be  safe  to  do  it  with  ? " 

"  Well,"  said  the  landlord,  "  as  a  matter  of  fact 
you  can  do  it  with  me,  if  you  like.  I  do  a  little  in 
that  way  on  the  quiet." 

"  The  police  don't  bother  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  they're  not  a  very  bright  lot,  the  police 
here.  Besides,  they're  pretty  busy  just  now.  We 
had  a  murder  in  Teston  the  day  before  you  came." 

"Who  was  that?" 

"  A  Miss  Samuel,  daughter  of  some  very  well- 
to-do  people  here.  They  think  it  was  a  tramp. 
See  that  plantation  up  on  the  hill  there?  That 
was  where  they  found  her — her  head  all  beaten  to 
pulp  and  her  money  gone." 


SMEATH  7 

"  Nice  set  of  blackguards  you've  got  in  Teston, 
I  don't  think.  Well  now,  about  this  race  to-day." 

When  Percy  Bellowes  left  the  Victoria  Hotel  on 
the  following  morning  he  was  not  required  to  pay 
a  bill.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  a  small  balance  to 
receive  from  the  landlord. 

"  Bless  you,  I  don't  mind,"  said  the  landlord,  as 
he  paid  him.  "  Pretty  well  all  my  crowd  were  on 
the  favourite.  Queer  thing  that  horse  should  have 
fallen." 


II 


AT  Warlow  the  entertainment  went  very  well. 
When  it  was  over,  Bellowes  asked  Smeath  to  come 
round  to  the  hotel.  They  had  the  little  smoking- 
room  to  themselves. 

"You  remember  when  I  hypnotized  you 
yesterday  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.     Yes,  Mr  Bellowes." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  you  did,  or  said  ?  " 

Smeath  shook  his  head. 

"  I  went  to  sleep,  the  same  as  I  did  to-night. 
That  was  all." 

"  Know  anything  about  horse-racing  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     Never  touched  it." 

"  You  mean  to  say  you've  never  seen  a  horse- 
race?" 

"  Never." 

"  What  did  you  do  before  you  came  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  had  not  been  in  any  employment  for  some 


STORIES  IN  GREY 

time.  I  was  once  in  business  as  a  bird-fancier.  I 
had  bad  luck  and  made  no  money  in  it.  You  ask 
me  a  great  many  questions,  sir." 

"  I  do.  That's  because  I've  been  turning  things 
over  in  my  mind.  I  want  you  to  put  your  name 
to  an  agreement  with  me  for  three  years.  A  pound 
a  week.  That's  a  good  offer.  A  man  who's  been 
in  business,  and  failed,  ought  to  appreciate  an 
absolute  certainty  like  that." 

"  It  would  be  the  same  kind  of  work  ?  "  Smeath 
asked. 

"Pretty  much  the  same.  When  I've  finished 
this  tour  I  am  thinking  of  settling  down  in 
London.  I  should  employ  you  there." 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr  Bellowes,"  said  Smeath. 
"  I  would  rather  not." 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  said  Bellowes.  "  Make  an  idiot 
of  yourself,  if  you  like.  It  doesn't  make  a  pin's- 
head  of  difference  to  me.  I  can  easily  find  plenty 
of  other  men  who  would  grab  at  it.  I  thought  I 
was  doing  you  a  kindness.  As  you  said  yourself, 
chaps  of  your  build  don't  find  it  any  too  easy  to  get 
work." 

"  I  will  work  for  you  for  six  months — possibly  a 
month  or  two  longer  than  that.  But,  afterwards, 
well,  I  wish  to  return  to  the  bird-fancying  again." 

" No,  you  don't,"  said  Bellowes,  savagely  "If 
you  can't  take  my  terms,  you're  not  going  to  make 
your  own.  If  you  won't  sign  for  three  years,  out 
you  get!  You're  talking  like  a  fool,  too.  How 
can  you  go  back  to  this  rotten  business  in  six 


SMEATH  9 

months  ?  D'you  think  you're  going  to  save  the 
capital  for  it  out  of  a  pound  a  week  ?  " 

"  I  have  friends  who  might  help  me." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"  They  are — well,  they're  friends  of  mine.  You 
will  perhaps  give  me  till  to-morrow  morning  to 
think  it  over." 

"  Very  well.  If  you're  not  here  by  ten  to-morrow 
morning  to  go  round  to  the  solicitor's  office  with 
me,  I've  finished  with  you.  Now  then,  I'm  going 
to  hypnotize  you  again." 

"What  for?" 

"  Practice.     Now  then,  look  at  me." 

In  a  few  moments  Smeath  sat  with  his  eyes 
open,  but  fixed. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  see  ? "  asked  Bellowes. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Smeath.     "  I  see  nothing." 

"Yes,  you  do,"  said  Bellowes.  "There  are 
horses  with  jockeys  on  them.  They  are  racing. 
See  ?  They  get  near  the  winning-post." 

"  Yes,"  said  Smeath,  dully.  "  I  see  them,  but  it 
is  through  a  mist  and  a  long  way  off.  Now  they're 
gone." 

"  Yesterday  when  I  hypnotized  you,  you  saw 
clearly.  You  actually  described  a  race  which 
afterwards  took  place.  You  gave  me  the  colours. 
You  gave  me  the  names  that  the  crowd  shouted, 
You  described  how  the  favourite  crossed  his 
legs  and  fell.  Can  you  do  nothing  of  the  kind 
to-day  ?  " 

"  No,  not  to-day.     To-day  I  see  other  things." 


io  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"What?" 

"  I  see  a  street  in  London.  There  is  a  long  row 
of  sandwichmen.  My  name  is  on  their  boards. 
There  are  many  fashionable  people  in  the  street. 
Expensive  shops.  Jewellers'  shops,  picture- 
galleries.  I  can  see  you,  too.  You  have  just 
come  into  the  street." 

"  Where  have  I  come  from  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  It  may  be  your  own  house 
or  offices.  Your  name  is  on  a  very  small  brass 
plate  by  the  side  of  the  door.  You  have  got  a 
fur  coat  on,  and  you  are  wearing  a  diamond  pin. 
You  get  into  a  car.  It  is  your  own  car,  and  you 
tell  the  man  who  opens  the  door  for  you  to  drive 
to  the  bank.  You  look  very  pleased  and  pros- 
perous. Now  the  car  starts.  That  is  all.  I  can 
see  no  more." 

Bellowes  leaned  forward  and  blew  lightly  on 
Smeath's  eyes.  The  tenseness  of  his  muscles 
relaxed.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  stood  up. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you've  been  saying  ? " 
Bellowes  asked. 

"I've  been  saying  nothing,"  said  Smeath.  "I 
have  been  asleep,  as  you  know.  You  made  me 
go  to  sleep." 

Bellowes  looked  round  the  room.  His  eye  fell 
on  an  empty  cigarette-box,  lying  in  the  fender. 

"  Pick  that  up,  and  hold  it  in  your  hands,"  he  said. 

Smeath  looked  surprised,  but  he  did  as  he  was 
told.  There  was  a  loose  label  on  the  box,  and  his 
fingers  began  to  tear  it  off  in  small  pieces. 


SMEATH  ii 

"  Now  then,"  said  Bellowes,  <k  can  you  tell  me 
anything  about  the  man  who  had  that  box,  and 
threw  it  down  there  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  can't.  How  should  I  be  able  to 
do  that?  It's  not  possible." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bellowes.  "I'm  going  to  put 
you  to  sleep  once  more." 

"  I  don't  like  this,"  whined  Smeath.  "  There's 
too  much  of  it.  It's  bad  for  one's  health." 

"  Nonsense !  Look  here,  Smeath.  I  want  you 
for  three  years,  don't  I  ?  Then  I'm  not  likely  to 
do  anything  that  will  injure  your  health.  You'll 
be  all  right." 

When  Bellowes  had  hypnotized  Smeath,  he  again 
put  the  cigarette-box  in  his  hands. 

"  And  now  what  do  you  see  ? "  he  asked. 

"  This  is  quite  clear.  It  is  a  short,  thick-set  man 
who  takes  the  last  cigarette  out  of  the  box  and 
throws  it  down.  As  he  smokes  it,  he  walks  up 
and  down  the  room,  frowning.  He  is  puzzled 
about  something.  He  takes  out  his  pocket-book, 
and  as  he  opens  it  a  card  drops  to  the  floor." 

"  Can  you  see  what's  on  the  card  ?  " 

"Yes.  It  lies  face  upwards.  The  name  is 
'  Mr  Vincent.'  And  in  the  left-hand  corner  are 
the  words  'Criminal  Investigation  Department, 
Scotland  Yard.'  Now  he  closes  his  note-book." 

"  What  was  written  in  it  ?  " 

"  I  only  saw  one  word — the  name '  Samuel '  .  .  .  . 
Now  a  waiter  comes  into  the  room,  and  the  man 
asks  for  a  time-table." 


12  STORIES  IN  GREY 

Once  more  Bellowes  restored  Smeath  to  his 
normal  state. 

"  That'll  do,"  he  said.  "  That's  all  for  to-night.  You 
can  be  off  now,  and  think  over  that  offer  of  mine." 

At  ten  on  the  following  morning  Smeath  kept 
his  appointment.  He  said  he  would  sign  an 
agreement  for  two  years  only,  and  that  he  would 
want  thirty  shillings  a  week. 

"  What  makes  you  suddenly  think  you're  worth 
thirty  shillings  a  week  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  idea  at  all,  but  I  know  you  need  me 
very  much.  I  have  that  feeling." 

"  It  was  three  years  I  said,  not  two.  If  I  pay 
you  thirty  shillings  a  week,  you  can  sign  for  three 
years." 

"  I  cannot.  I  want  to  get  back  to  my  birds.  I 
will  sign  for  thirty  shillings  a  week  for  two  years, 
or  I  will  go  away." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  growled  Bellowes.  "You're 
an  obstinate  little  devil.  Have  it  your  own  way. 
I  hope  to  goodness  I'm  not  going  to  lose  money 
over  you.  I've  never  paid  more  than  a  pound  to 
an  assistant  before.  By  the  way,  Smeath,  were 
you  ever  in  London  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  several  times." 

"  Do  you  know  Piccadilly,  or  Bond  Street,  or 
Regent  Street  ? " 

Smeath  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  only  passed  through  in  going  from  one 
place  to  another.  I  know  the  names  of  those 
streets,  but  I've  never  been  in  them." 


SMEATH  13 

"  Very  well,"  said  Bellowes.    "  Come  along  with 
me,  and  we'll  fix  up  the  agreement." 


Ill 


ABOUT  a  month  later  Mr  Bellowes,  who  had 
come  up  to  London  for  the  purpose,  called  at  the 
office  of  Mr  Tangent's  agency  in  Sussex 
Street. 

"  Appointment,"  said  Bellowes,  as  he  handed  in 
his  card,  and  was  taken  immediately  into  the 
inner  office.  Mr  Tangent,  a  florid  and  slightly 
overdressed  man  of  fifty,  rose  from  his  American 
desk  to  shake  hands  with  him. 

"Well,  my  dear  old  boy,"  said  Tangent,  "and 
how  are  you  ?  " 

11  Fit,"  said  Bellowes.     "  Remarkably  fit." 

"And  what  can  I  do  for  you?  I  had  an 
inquiry  the  other  day  that  brought  you  to  my 
mind.  It's  not  much.  A  week,  with  a  chance 
of  an  engagement  if  you  catch  on." 

"Thanks,  old  man,  but  I  don't  want  it.  I've 
got  on  to  something  a  bit  better.  What  I  want 
from  you  is  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds." 

Tangent  laughed  genially. 

"  Long  time  since  I've  seen  so  much  money  as 
that.  Well,  well !  What's  it  for  ?  Tell  us  the 
story." 

"  I've  had  a  bit  of  luck,  Tangent.  I've  got  a 
man  booked  up  to  me  for  the  next  two  years  who 


14  STORIES  IN  GREY 

is  simply  the  most  marvellous  clairvoyant  the 
world  has  ever  seen." 

"  Clairvoyants  aren't  going  well,"  said  Tangent. 
"  Most  of  them  don't  make  enough  to  pay  for 
their  rent  and  their  ads.  in  the  Sunday  papers. 
The  fact  is  there  are  too  many  of  them.  I  don't 
care  what  the  line  is — palmistry,  crystal-gazing, 
psychometry,  or  what  you  like.  There's  no  money 
in  it." 

"  Let's  talk  sense.  You  say  there's  no  money 
in  it  ?  Do  you  remember  when  Merion  fell,  and 
a  ten-to-one  chance  romped  home  ?  " 

"Remember  it?  I've  good  reason  to.  I'd 
backed  Merion  both  ways,  and  didn't  see  how  I 
was  going  to  lose." 

"Well,  I  backed  the  winner.  Not  being  a 
Croesus  like  yourself,  I  only  had  five  bob  on.  I 
backed  him,  because  my  clairvoyant  saw  the  whole 
thing,  and  described  it  to  me  before  the  race  was 
run." 

"tan  he  do  it  again  ?  " 

"  He  has  not  been  able  to  do  it  again  yet.  He 
has  seen  what  happened  in  the  past  many  times, 
and  he  has  never  been  wrong.  He  is  exceptional. 
He  is  only  clairvoyant  when  he  is  hypnotized.  In 
the  normal  state  he  sees  nothing.  He's  an  ugly 
little  devil,  a  dwarf,  and  if  I  bring  him  to  London 
he'll  make  a  sensation.  What's  more,  he'll  make 
money.  Pots  of  money.  I  know  the  crowd  you've 
been  talking  about.  They're  a  hit-or-miss  lot. 
They're  no  good.  This  is  something  quite  different. 


SMEATH  15 

We  shall  have  all  the  Society  women  paying 
any  fee  I  like  to  consult  him.  There's  a  fortune 
in  it." 

Tangent  lit  a  cigarette,  and  pushed  the  box 
across  to  Bellowes.  "  What  is  it  you  propose  to 
do  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Rooms  in  Bond  Street.  Good  furniture. 
Uniformed  servant.  Sandwichmen  at  first.  Once 
the  thing  gets  started,  it  will  go  by  itself.  Any 
woman  who  has  consulted  him  once  is  absolutely 
bound  to  tell  all  her  friends.  The  man's  a  miracle. 
I'll  tell  you  another  thing  I'm  going  to  do.  When 
the  next  sensational  murder  turns  up,  and  Scotland 
Yard  can't  put  their  hands  on  the  man  who  did 
it,  I'm  going  to  turn  my  chap  on  to  the  job.  I'll 
bet  all  I've  got  to  sixpence  that  we  find  the 
man." 

"  There  was  the  case  of  that  girl  —  Esther 
Samuel." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  that.  But  by  this  time  most 
of  the  public  have  forgotten  it.  A  better  chance 
is  bound  to  turn  up  soon." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you're  going  to  start  on  a 
hundred  and  fifty." 

"  I'm  not,  my  boy.  I've  got  money  of  my  own 
that  I'm  putting  into  it  as  well.'* 

"  Let's  see,"  said  Tangent,  picking  up  a  pencil. 
"What  did  you  say  was  this  man's  name  and 
address  ?  " 

Bellowes  laughed.  "  Oh,  no,  you  don't,"  he  said. 
"At  present  that's  my  business.  Make  it  your 


16  STORIES  IN  GREY 

own  business  as  well  and  you  shall  be  told  every- 
thing." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  call  it  business 
at  all.  You  ask  me  to  lend  you  a  hundred  and 
fifty.  You  offer  no  security.  All  I've  got  is  your 
story  that  you've  found  a  clairvoyant  who's  really 
good." 

"Very  well.  If  you  satisfied  yourself  that  the 
man  was  really  good,  would  you  lend  the  money 
then?" 

"On  terms,  yes.  But  they'd  have  to  be  satis- 
factory terms." 

"  They  would  be.  Well,  you  shall  see  for  your- 
self. The  man's  waiting  in  a  cab  downstairs." 

"  You  might  have  said  that  before." 

"Why?  Anyhow,  I'll  go  and  bring  him  up 
now." 

It  was  a  chilly  morning,  and  Smeath  shivered 
in  a  thick  overcoat,  which  he  refused  to  remove. 
No  time  was  wasted  on  preliminaries.  Bellowes 
hypnotized  him  at  once. 

"  Now  then,  my  boy,"  said  Bellowes.  "  You 
shall  see  for  yourself.  Give  me  any  article  which 
you  or  someone  else  has  worn,  or  has  frequently 
handled." 

Tangent  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  and  pro- 
duced a  lady's  glove.  "  That,"  he  said,  "  was  left 
in  my  office  a  week  ago.  Let's  see  what  he  makes 
out  of  it." 

Bellowes  put  the  glove  in  Smeath's  hands. 
Srneath  began  to  pull  the  buttons  off  it.  He 


SMEATH  17 

dragged  and  tore  at  the  glove  like  a  wild  animal 
at  its  prey.  Then  suddenly  he  began  to  speak. 

"  I  see  a  handsome  woman  with  bright  golden 
hair.  I  think  the  hair  has  been  dyed.  It  has  that 
appearance.  She  is  talking  with  Mr  What's-his- 
name  in  this  room.  Each  is  angry  with  the  other. 
She  is  accusing  him  of  something.  Suddenly — 
yes — she  picks  up  an  ink-bottle  and  throws  it  at 
him.  Ink  all  over  the  place.  He  bangs  on  a 
little  bell,  and  a  man  comes  in  who  looks  like  a 
clerk.  That  is  all.  I  cannot  see  any  more." 

"  Wake  him  up  and  send  him  down  to  the  cab 
again,"  said  Tangent.  "  Then  we  can  talk." 

"Now,"  said  Bellowes,  when  they  were  alone 
together.  "  Had  he  got  that  right  ?  " 

"Absolutely.  The  woman  was  Cora  Vendall. 
She  wanted  a  particular  berth,  and  thought  I 
ought  to  have  got  it  for  her.  She's  fifty-six  if 
she's  a  day,  and  not  in  any  way  suitable  for  it. 
If  I  had  proposed  it,  the  people  would  simply 
have  laughed  at  me.  She  did  get  into  a  blind 
fury  with  me,  and  she  did  throw  the  ink  at  me. 
She's  been  made  to  pay  for  that,  and  she's  been 
told  not  to  show  her  powdered  nose  inside  my 
office  again.  Your  man  is  remarkable,  Bellowes. 
There  can  be  no  two  opinions  about  it.  There  is 
certainly  money  in  him." 

"  You  will  find  the  hundred  and  fifty,  then  ?  " 

"Yes,  I'll  do  that.  Mind,  I  must  have  a  word 
to  say  in  the  management.  The  right  sort  of 
people  will  have  to  be  got  to  see  that  man.  Once 


18  STORIES  IN  GREY 

that  has  been  done,  I  do  believe  you're  right,  and 
the  thing  will  go  by  itself." 

"  What  interest  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  interest.  What  I  do  is  to  buy  for 
a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  share  in  your  profits 
from  your  agreement  with  the  clairvoyant." 

"You  shall  have  it.  It's  a  jolly  good  thing  I'm 
putting  into  your  way,  Tangent.  I  had  never 
meant  to  part  with  a  share,  and  I'd  sooner  pay 
you  fifteen  per  cent,  on  your  money.  However,  if 
you  insist,  you  can  take  a  sixteenth." 

"Rats!"  said  Mr  Tangent,  impolitely.  "This 
is  not  everybody's  business.  Step  across  to  the 
Bank  of  England,  and  see  how  much  they'll 
advance  you  on  it.  There  are  three  of  us  in  it. 
Him  and  you  and  me.  I'm  going  to  take  a  third. 
Do  just  as  you  like  about  it.  If  I  go  into  it  I  can 
make  it  a  certainty.  I  can  get  the  right  people  to 
see  the  man." 

"  A  third's  too  much.  You  must  be  reasonable, 
Tangent.  I  discovered  him." 

"  A  man  once  discovered  a  gold-mine.  He  had 
no  means  of  getting  the  gold  out.  He  was  a 
thousand  miles  from  anywhere,  and  he  was  all 
alone.  He  died  on  the  top  of  his  blessed  gold- 
mine. However,  I'm  not  arguing.  I'm  simply 
telling  you.  Give  me  a  third,  and  my  cheque  and 
the  agreement  will  be  ready  this  time  to-morrow 
morning.  Otherwise,  no  business." 

Mr  Bellowes  hesitated,  and  then  gave  in. 


SMEATH  19 


IV 


AT  six  o'clock  on  a  summer  evening,  in  a  well- 
furnished  room  that  overlooked  the  traffic  of  Bond 
Street,  Smeath  and  his  employer  sat  and  quarrelled 
together.  Both  of  them  wore  new  clothes,  but 
Bellowes  had  the  air  of  prosperity,  and  Smeath 
had  not. 

"  It's  no  good  to  talk  to  me,"  whined  Smeath. 
"  I  know  what  I'm  saying.  Where  an  essential 
consideration  has  been  intentionally  concealed,  an 
agreement  cannot  stand.  You  never  told  me  I 
was  a  clairvoyant." 

"  No,"  said  Bellowes,  "  I  did  not.  And  I  don't 
tell  a  man  what  the  colour  of  his  hair  is,  either. 
Why  ?  Because  he  knows  it  already.  You  knew 
that  you  were  a  clairvoyant." 

"  I  did  not.  I  swear  I  did  not ! "  said  Smeath, 
raising  his  voice. 

"  Now,  don't  get  excited.     Don't  squeal." 

"  I'm  not  squealing.  Do  you  think  that  if  I'd 
known,  I  would  ever  have  come  to  you  for  a  wage 
like  that  ?  We've  had  fourteen  people  here  to-day. 
What  did  they  pay  ?  " 

"  Mind  your  own  business  ! " 

"But  it  is  my  own  business.  And  as  you 
wouldn't  tell  me,  I've  taken  my  own  steps  to  find 
out.  Not  one  of  them  paid  less  than  a  guinea. 
You  had  as  much  as  five  guineas  from  some.  And 
here  am  I  with  thirty  shillings  a  week.  I  can  get 


20  STORIES  IN  GREY 

that  agreement  set  aside.  I  can  prove  what  I'm  say- 
ing. I  had  never  been  hypnotized  until  I  met  you." 

"Look  here,"  said  Bellowes.  "Let  us  get  this 
fixed  up  once  for  all.  I  don't  know  who's  been 
cramming  you  up  with  these  fairy-tales  about  my 
fees,  but  I  don't  get  what  you  think,  or  anything 
like  it.  I  get  so  little,  that  I  don't  want  to  waste 
any  of  it  on  lawyers.  Besides,  it  would  do  the 
business  no  good,  and  it  would  do  you  no  good. 
I  should  leave  you,  and  then  where  would  you 
be  ?  Remember  that  you  are  not  clairvoyant  until 
I  make  you  clairvoyant." 

"  You  think,  perhaps,  I  have  not  read  what  the 
newspapers  say  about  me  ?  I  can  find  a  hundred 
hypnotists  very  easily.  But  there  is  no  other  man 
who's  clairvoyant  as  I  am." 

"  And  there  is  no  other  man  who  can  run  a  show 
as  I  can.  Who  brought  the  newspaper  men  here  ? 
Who  paid  for  the  advertisements?  Who  did 
pretty  well  everything  ?  However,  I'm  not  going 
to  argue.  If  you  want  more  money,  you  can  have 
it.  Name  your  figure.  If  it  is  in  any  way  reason- 
able, you  shall  have  it,  on  the  understanding  that 
this  is  the  last  advance  you  get.  If  it  is 
unreasonable,  you'll  get  nothing.  You  can  take 
the  thing  into  the  Courts,  and  I'll  fight  it.  And, 
mark  my  words,  Smeath.  If  I  do,  you  may  get 
a  surprise.  You  know  nothing  at  all  about 
hypnotism.  You  may  find  yourself  in  the  witness- 
box  saying  things  that  you  did  not  intend  to  say. 
Now,  then,  name  your  figure." 


SMEATH  21 

The  little  man  took  time  to  think  it  over.  He 
rubbed  his  chin  with  his  fingers  reflectively.  He 
seemed  on  the  point  of  speaking,  and  then  stopped. 
Suddenly  he  snapped  out : 

"  I  want  four  pounds  a  week  ! " 

"  It's  simply  bare-faced  robbery,"  said  Bellowes. 
"  But  you  shall  have  it.  Mind  you,  you  will  have 
to  sign  another  paper  to-morrow,  and  this  time 
there  shall  be  no  doubt  about  it." 

"  If  you  pay  me  that,  I'll  sign  anything.  With 
four  pounds  a  week  I  can  keep  some  very  good 
birds  again.  But  you  are  right  that  it  is  bare-faced 
robbery,  and  I  am  the  man  who  is  being  robbed." 

There  had  been  many  disputes  between  the  two 
men  during  the  six  weeks  that  they  had  been 
associated.  It  was  by  Tangent's  directions  that 
Bellowes  acted  in  the  present  quarrel. 

"  It  would  be  better  to  pay  the  little  devil  twenty 
pounds  a  week,  and  keep  him,  than  to  refuse  and 
lose  him,"  said  Tangent.  "  I  believe  he's  right,  and 
that  your  precious  agreement  isn't  worth  the  paper 
it's  written  on.  Anyhow,  I'll  get  a  new  agreement 
ready.  Pay  him  what  he  wants,  and  he'll  sign 
it."  ' 

"  Well,"  said  Bellowes,  doubtfully,  "  if  you  say  so 
you're  probably  right.  But  in  that  case  we  ought 
to  get  an  extension  of  time  out  of  him." 

"No,"  said  Tangent,  "the  chap's  suspicious  of 
you.  He  hates  you.  If  you  try  any  sort  of 
monkeying,  he'll  be  off.  Besides,  with  the  fees 
you're  charging,  two  years  will  about  see  it  through. 


22  STORIES  IN  GREY 

There  are  not  such  a  vast  number  of  people  who 
can  afford  the  game." 

"  As  things  go  at  present,  it  looks  as  though  it 
might  last  for  ever.  You  should  see  the  engage- 
ment-book. We've  got  appointments  booked  for 
two  months  ahead.  It  isn't  only  a  game  you  see. 
It's  not  just  a  pastime  for  fashionable  women.  We 
get  men  from  the  Stock  Exchange,  business  men 
of  all  sorts,  racing-men.  Yesterday  morning  we 
had  the  Prime  Minister's  private  secretary.  He 
didn't  give  his  right  name,  but  Smeath  was  on  to 
it,  and  then  he  admitted  it." 

"  Hot  stuff,  Smeath.  Do  you  get  much  out  of 
him  in  the  way  of  prophecy?  Foretelling  the 
future  ?  " 

"  Not  very  often.  He  has  done  some  wonderful 
things  that  way,  but  more  usually  he  deals  with 
something  that  is  past." 

"  Why  don't  you  get  him  to  foretell  your  own 
future,  Percy  ?  " 

Bellowes  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  taking  any,"  he  said.  "  He  shall  have  a 
shot  with  you  if  you  like." 

But  Tangent  also  refused. 

Their  business  had  certainly  progressed  very 
rapidly.  Tangent  arranged  a  report  in  a  news- 
paper. He  communicated  with  one  or  two  doctors 
whom  he  knew  to  be  interested  in  the  subject. 
He  sent  a  couple  of  popular  actresses  to  Smeath. 
He  arranged  a  special  seance  for  a  Cabinet 
Minister,  whose  principal  interest  was  psychology. 


SMEATH  23 

After  the  first  week  they  no  longer  employed 
sandwichmen  and  advertisements.  The  ball  had 
begun  to  roll.  Everybody  who  came  to  Smeath 
sent  somebody  else.  Everybody  in  Society  was  talk- 
ing about  the  hideous  little  dwarf  and  his  marvellous 
powers.  Bellowes  was  regarded  as  a  showman 
and  a  charlatan,  but  Smeath  was  clearly  the 
genuine  thing. 

Despite  their  mutual  dislike,  Bellowes  and 
Smeath  both  lived  in  the  same  house  —  the 
Bloomsbury  lodging-house.  It  was  Bellowes  who 
had  insisted  on  this.  He  had  never  felt  quite  safe 
about  Smeath,  and  even  after  the  new  agreement 
had  been  signed  he  had  his  suspicions.  He  was 
afraid  that  Smeath  would  run  away.  Bellowes 
occupied  fairly  good  rooms  on  the  first  floor. 
Smeath  had  one  room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  but 
this  happened  to  suit  him.  Through  his  windows 
he  could  get  out  on  to  a  flat,  leaded  roof.  There 
he  made  friends  with  the  pigeons  and  sparrows. 
The  maid-servant  at  the  house,  who  one  day  saw 
him  out  on  the  roof  with  the  birds  all  round  him, 
said  that  it  was  witchcraft. 

"  They  were  'opping  about  all  over  'im.  Some- 
times he  put  one  down  and  called  another  up.  I 
never  saw  anything  like  it  in  my  life  before." 

She  had  the  hatred  of  the  unusual  which  is 
prevalent  amongst  domestic  servants,  and  gave 
notice  at  once.  But  before  the  month  was  up  she 
had  grown  quite  accustomed  to  seeing  Smeath 
playing  with  the  birds,  and  the  notice  was  revoked. 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


BELLOWES  still  used  for  business  purposes  the 
name  of  Sanders-Bell,  but  he  no  longer  called 
himself  a  doctor.  He  was  meeting  too  many  real 
doctors,  and  Tangent  had  advised  against  it.  The 
room  in  Bond  Street  was  divided  in  two  by  a 
curtain.  The  outer  part  served  as  a  waiting-room, 
and  here,  too,  Bellowes  had  his  bureau.  In  the 
inner  part  of  the  room  the  actual  interview  between 
the  client  and  the  clairvoyant  took  place.  Their 
usual  hours  were  only  from  eleven  to  one  and  from 
two  to  four,  but  Bellowes  would  sometimes  arrange 
for  a  special  interview  at  an  unusual  hour  and  an 
increased  price.  On  these  occasions  he  always 
took  care  to  pacify  Smeath.  Sometimes  he  gave 
him  money,  and  sometimes  other  presents  ;  on  one 
occasion  he  gave  him  a  big  book  about  birds,  with 
coloured  illustrations,  and  Smeath  remained  docile 
and  in  a  good  temper  for  days  afterwards. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bellowes.  "  You  have  complained 
once  that  I  was  robbing  you.  You  can't  say  that 
now.  You  have  fixed  your  own  salary.  If  there 
is  the  least  little  bit  of  extra  work  to  be  done,  you 
always  get  something  for  it.  You  are  not  as 
grateful  as  you  ought  to  be,  Smeath.  Where 
would  you  have  been  without  me?  What  were 
you  doing  before  you  came  to  me?" 

"  Nothing.  For  some  weeks  I  had  been  very 
hungry.  I  make  no  complaint  against  you,  but 


SMEATH  25 

when  my  time's  up  I  shall  stay  no  longer.  I  go 
back  to  the  birds  again." 

"  It  would  be  more  sensible  of  you,"  said  Bellowes, 
"  if  you  banked  your  money.  What  did  you  want 
to  buy  that  great  owl  for  ?  He  makes  the  devil  of 
a  row  at  night.  We  shall  have  people  complaining 
about  it." 

"  She  is  a  very  good  friend  to  me,  that  owl,"  said 
Smeath.  "  I  am  teaching  her  much.  She  will  be 
valuable." 

At  this  moment  there  was  the  sound  of  a 
footstep  on  the  stairs,  and  Smeath  stepped  behind 
his  curtain. 

The  man  who  entered  was  not  at  all  the  type  of 
client  that  Bellowes  generally  received.  He  was 
a  thick-set  man  of  common  appearance,  and  he 
was  unfashionably  dressed.  He  did  not  look  in 
the  least  as  if  he  could  afford  the  fee.  Bellowes 
saluted  him  somewhat  curtly. 

"  It  is  ten  minutes  to  eleven,  sir,  and  our  hour 
for  beginning  is  eleven.  However,  as  you  have 
called,  if  you  like  to  pay  the  fee  now — two  guineas 
—I  will  make  an  appointment  for  you,  but  I'm 
afraid  it  will  have  to  be  in  nine  weeks'  time." 

The  visitor  looked  reflective,  turning  his  seedy 
bowler  hat  round  in  his  hands. 

"Don't  think  that  would  do,"  he  said.  "Nine 
weeks — that's  a  very  long  time.  Couldn't  Mr 
Smeath  see  me  to-day?  Couldn't  he  make  an 
exception  ?  " 

"Only  by   giving  you   a   special  appointment. 


UES  IN  GREY 

And  for  that  a  very  much  higher  fee  is 
charged." 

"  How  much  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  He  could  give  you  ten  minutes  at  one  o'clock 
to-day.  But  the  charge  for  that  would  be  six 
guineas.  You  see,  Mr  Smeath  is  only  clairvoyant 
while  in  the  hypnotic  state,  and  that  cannot  be 
repeated  indefinitely." 

The  visitor  took  an  old-fashioned  purse  from  his 
hip-pocket.  He  pulled  out  a  five-pound  note,  a 
sovereign,  and  six  shillings 

"  There  you  are,"  he  said.  "  Please  book  me  ten 
minutes  with  Mr  Smeath  at  one  o'clock  to-day." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Bellowes,  opening  the  engage- 
ment-book. He  looked  up,  with  his  pen  in  his 
hand.  "  What  name  shall  I  put  down  ? " 

"  I  am  Mr  Vincent." 

"You'll  be  careful  to  be  punctual,  of  course.  Mr 
Smeath  will  be  ready  exactly  at  one  o'clock." 

"  I  shall  be  here,"  said  the  man. 

He  had  no  sooner  gone  than  Smeath  emerged 
from  behind  the  curtain  again.  "  What  on  earth 
did  you  do  that  for  ?  "  he  asked  excitedly. 

"Keep  your  hair  on,  Smeath.  It's  all  right. 
I'm  going  to  buy  you  a  big  cage  for  that  owl  of 
yours." 

"I  do  not  want  any  cage.  My  birds  are  not 
kept  in  cages.  It  is  not  the  extra  work  that  I 
mind.  It  is  that  I  cannot  do  anything  for  that 
man.  I  tell  you  he  is  dangerous." 

"In  what  way  dangerous  ?  " 


SMEATH  27 

"  I  don't  know.     He  is  dangerous  to  me." 

"  He  looked  to  me  an  honest  man  enough.  He 
had  the  appearance  of  a  chap  up  from  the  country. 
Probably  wants  to  know  what  his  best  girl  is  doing. 
I  shouldn't  worry  about  it  if  I  were  you.  Don't 
stand  in  the  way  of  business,  Smeath.  You  don't 
know  what  the  expenses  are  here.  I've  got  to  pay 
the  rent  next  week,  and  if  I  told  you  what  that 
was,  you  wouldn't  believe  it.  If  you  don't  want 
the  bird-cage,  you  shall  have  something  else." 

But  it  was  necessary  to  show  Smeath  a  sovereign, 
and  to  present  him  with  it  before  he  would  consent. 
Even  then,  he  did  so  with  great  reluctance. 

Clients  with  appointments  came  in,  and  the 
ordinary  business  of  the  morning  began.  Smeath 
no  longer  spoke  when  in  the  clairvoyant  state,  for 
he  was  often  consulted  upon  matters  requiring 
secrecy,  and  what  he  said  might  have  been  heard 
by  other  clients  in  waiting.  He  had  a  writing-block, 
and  scribbled  down  on  it  in  pencil  what  he  saw. 

At  one  o'clock  precisely  Mr  Vincent  returned, 
and  was  at  once  brought  behind  the  curtain. 
Smeath  sat  there  motionless.  His  eyes  were  open, 
but  he  did  not  look  up  at  Mr  Vincent. 

"Now  then,  sir,"  said  Bellowes.  "What  is  it 
you  want?" 

Mr  Vincent  drew  from  his  pocket  a  comb 
wrapped  in  paper.  It  was  of  the  kind  that  women 
wear  in  their  hair,  and  it  had  been  broken. 

"  I  want  him  to  tell  me  about  the  girl  who  wore 
this  at  the  time  when  it  was  broken." 


STORIES  IN  GREY 

Bellowes  placed  the  comb  in  Smeath's  hands. 
Smeath  held  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  fingers 
relaxed,  and  it  dropped  to  the  floor. 

Bellowes  again  placed  it  in  his  hand,  and  this 
time  Smeath  flung  it  from  him.  But  immediately 
he  began  to  write,  Mr  Vincent  watching  him 
narrowly  as  he  did  so.  He  wrote  with  an  extra- 
ordinary rapidity.  Presently  Bellowes,  who  had 
been  standing  behind  him,  and  reading  what  he 
wrote,  asked  Mr  Vincent  to  wait  in  the  outer  part 
of  the  room.  As  soon  as  he  was  alone  with 
Smeath,  he  took  the  writing-block  out  of  his  handsj 
tore  the  sheet  from  it,  folded  it,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  Then  he  rejoined  Vincent. 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry,  sir,"  said  Bellowes, "  that 
the  experiment  has  failed  completely.  There  is 
perhaps  some  kind  of  antipathy  between  Mr 
Smeath  and  yourself.  These  things  do  occasion- 
ally happen.  I  find  that  he  can  tell  you  nothing 
at  all,  and  under  the  circumstances,  I  should 
perhaps  return  your  fee." 

Vincent  did  not  seem  particularly  surprised. 

"  Very  well,  "  he  said.  "  I  had  hardly  expected 
to  get  what  I  wanted,  but  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  try.  I  paid  you  six  guineas,  I  think.  You 
seem  to  be  treating  me  fairly,  and  I  have  given 
you  a  certain  amount  of  trouble.  Supposing  you 
return  me  five  of  them." 

The  money  was  handed  over,  and  Vincent 
departed.  Bellowes  went  back  to  Smeath  and 
brought  him  out  of  the  trance.  Smeath  shivered. 


SMEATH  29 

"Is  he  here  still?" 

"No.     Gone." 

"Was  it  all  right?" 

"  It  was  quite  all  right." 

"  I'm  glad  he's  gone,"  said  Smeath.  "  I  was 
horribly  afraid  of  something.  Now  I  can  go  out 
and  get  my  lunch,  and  I  have  to  buy  food  for  the 
birds  too." 

"  I  shouldn't  spend  too  much  money  on  it  if  I 
were  you,"  said  Bellowes. 

Smeath  laughed. 

"  It  is  not  very  expensive,"  he  said.  "  And  I 
have  made  one  extra  sovereign.  Why  not  ?  " 

"Because,  in  future,  Smeath,  you  are  going  to 
work  for  me  for  much  less  money — for  a  pound  a 
week,  to  be  precise." 

"  I  shall  not,"  said  Smeath,  loudly. 

"  I  told  you  once  before  not  to  squeal.  I  don't 
like  it.  You  will  do  exactly  as  I  say,  and  for  a 
very  good  reason.  If  you  don't  you  will  be  taken 
to  prison,  and  you  will  be  tried  before  a  judge, 
and  you  will  be  hanged,  Smeath.  Hanged  for  the 
murder  of  Esther  Samuel  in  the  woods  at 
Teston." 


VI 


"WHAT  makes  you  say  that?  How  do  you  know  it?" 
asked  Smeath.  The  fingers  of  his  big  hands  locked 
and  separated  and  locked  again.  His  eyes  were 


STORIES  IN  GREY 

fixed  intently  on  Bellowes.     He  looked  excited, 
but  not  frightened. 

"  How  do  I  know  it  ? "  echoed  Bellowes.  "  I 
have  it  here  in  your  own  handwriting."  He  tapped 
his  breast-pocket.  "  You  do  not  remember  what 
happened  when  you  were  hypnotized.  I  put  a 
broken  comb  into  your  hands.  It  was  a  comb 
which  the  murdered  woman  had  worn.  You 
began  to  write  at  once.  You've  put  the  rope 
round  your  neck,  Smeath." 

"And  that  man — the  man  that  I  knew  to  be 
dangerous  ?  " 

"  Mr  Vincent  ?  I  told  him  that  the  experiment 
had  failed,  and  returned  his  fee.  He  knows 
nothing.  So  long  as  you  do  exactly  what  I  tell 
you,  you  are  quite  safe." 

"  Who  was  he,  this  Vincent  ?  " 

Bellowes  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  Possibly  one  of  the 
Samuel  family.  Possibly  a  'tec.  If  I  had  given 
him  what  he  had  paid  for,  we  should  have  had  the 
police  in  here  by  now.  I  have  saved  your  skin  for 
you,  Smeath.  Don't  forget  it." 

"  Will  you  read  it  out  to  me,  the  thing  that  I 
wrote  down  ?  " 

"  No.     It  tells  one  everything,  except  the  motive." 

"  The  motive  was  obvious  enough.  I  was  hungry 
and  had  no  money.  I  had  tramped  to  Teston  and 
reached  there  two  days  too  soon.  I  had  nowhere 
to  go,  and  I  lived  and  slept  in  the  woods.  I 
begged  from  the  girl  at  first,  and  if  she  had  given 


SMEATH  31 

me  a  few  pence  she  might  have  been  alive  now. 
She  was  not  the  least  bit  afraid  of  me.  Why 
should  she  have  been?  I  was  small,  misshapen, 
and  looked  weak.  She  was  tall  and  strong.  As 
she  turned  away  from  me,  she  said  the  tramps  in 
the  neighbourhood  were  becoming  a  nuisance,  and 
she  would  send  the  police  after  me.  Even  then  I 
only  meant  to  hit  her  once,  but  that  is  a  queer 
thing — you  cannot  hit  a  human  being  once.  You 
see  the  body  lying  at  your  feet,  and  you  have  to  go 
on  striking  and  striking.  When  I  knew  she  must 
be  dead,  I  flung  the  stick  down.  I  took  nothing 
but  the  money,  nothing  which  could  be  traced. 
Even  the  money  made  me  so  nervous  that  I  hid 
most  of  it — buried  it  in  a  place  where  I  could  find 
it  again.  If  the  police  had  found  me,  there  would 
only  have  been  a  few  coppers  in  my  possession, 
and  I  did  not  look  like  a  man  who  could  have 
done  it.  But  they  never  did  find  me." 

"  I  see.  That  was  why,  when  I  offered  to 
advance  your  railway  fare,  you  told  me  you  had 
money.  You  had  a  pair  of  new  boots  on  when 
you  turned  up  at  Warlow.  I  remember  what  an 
infernal  squeaking  row  they  made  on  the  platform. 
Well,  you've  done  for  yourself,  Smeath.  You've 
got  to  work  for  me  on  very  different  terms  now." 

"  No,"  said  Smeath.     "  That  is  not  so." 

"Very  good.  I'll  write  my  note  to  Mr  Vincent 
now.  He'll  do  the  rest." 

"  No  you  [won't,  and  I'll  tell  you  why.  You  can 
destroy  me  very  likely,  but  if  you  do,  you'll  destroy 


32  STORIES  IN  GREY 

your  own  livelihood.  And  you  always  take  very 
good  care  for  yourself,  Mr  Bellowes." 

"  Destroy  my  livelihood  ?  "  said  Bellowes,  thump- 
ing on  the  table  with  his  fist.  "  That's  where  you 
make  your  mistake,  you  little  devil !  Because 
you're  useful, you  think  you're  indispensable.  You're 
not.  There's  a  reward  of  two  hundred  pounds  out 
for  anyone  who  finds  the  murderer  of  Esther 
Samuel.  I'm  a  born  showman.  With  two  hundred 
pounds  capital  I  can  chuck  this  and  start  some- 
thing else  that  will  pay  me  just  as  well." 

"It  looks  as  if  I  shall  have  to  give  in.  Well, 
there's  no  help  for  it.  I  must  get  a  much  cheaper 
room,  of  course." 

"  No,  you  won't.  You'll  stop  in  the  same  house 
as  me.  D'you  think  I  haven't  worked  it  all  out  ? 
After  you've  paid  your  rent,  you've  a  shilling  a 
day  for  food,  and  better  men  have  lived  on  less. 
I'm  not  going  to  give  you  a  chance  to  bolt.  And 
mark  my  words,  Smeath,  if  you  do  bolt,  the  very 
moment  I  find  you've  gone  I  give  you  up.  Don't 
imagine  you  can  get  away.  There  are  not  many 
men  of  your  build.  The  police  would  have  you 
for  a  certainty  within  twenty-four  hours." 

"  Then  I  become  a  slave ;  I  can  do  nothing. 
There  were  other  birds  that  I  meant  to  buy.  And 
in  time  I  could  have  started  a  business  again. 
That  must  all  go." 

"  Quite  so.  That  must  all  go.  In  fact,  before  a 
fortnight  is  out  I  expect  you'll  sell  that  big  white 
owl  of  yours.  You'll  grudge  him  his  keep." 


SMEATH  33 

"  It  is  a  she-owl,  and  I  shall  not  let  her  go.  She 
can  do  things  that  would  surprise  you." 

"Can  she?"  said  Bellowes.  "It  might  be 
rather  effective  if  you  brought  her  down  here. 
She  would  impress  clients." 

"  I  shall  not.     I  keep  her  for  myself! " 

"Don't  talk  like  a  fool!  You  are  forgetting 
that  I  hold  you  between  my  thumb  and  finger.  If 
I  tell  you  to  wring  that  bird's  neck  you  will  have 
to  do  it." 

Smeath  rose  to  his  feet  in  fury. 

"  Where's  my  hat  ? "  he  said.  "  Give  me  my 
hat ! " 

Bellowes  stood  in  front  of  the  door. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  Where  are  you 
off  to?" 

"  Checkmate  for  you,  Mr  Bellowes.  I  am  going 
now  to  give  myself  up.  Where  is  your  two 
hundred  pounds  reward,  eh  ?  Where  is  the  money 
that  you  make  out  of  the  clairvoyant  ?  " 

"  Sit  down,  and  don't  talk  in  that  silly  way.  I 
never  told  you  to  kill  the  bird.  I  was  only 
speaking  in  your  interests  when  I  said  I  doubted 
if  you  could  afford  to  keep  it.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  don't  care  a  pin's  head  about  it  either 
way.  If  you  set  so  much  store  by  it,  keep  it  by 
all  means." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Smeath,  "  I  will  go  on 
working  for  you,  and  on  the  terms  that  you  have 
said." 

"  That's  all  right ;  and  now  you  can  go  out  to 
c 


34  STORIES  IN  GREY 

lunch.  Remember  that  you  have  to  be  back  at 
two  o'clock.  If  you  are  not  here  by  ten  minutes 
past  two,  I  shall  send  the  police  to  look  for 
you." 

"  I  shall  be  here,  Mr  Bellowes." 

Every  Saturday  morning  at  half-past  nine  Tan- 
gent called  on  Bellowes  in  Bond  Street,  to  look  over 
the  books  and  to  collect  his  share  of  the  profits. 
Tangent  had  no  great  faith  in  Mr  Bellowes. 
Smeath  was  never  allowed  to  be  present  on  these 
occasions. 

On  the  Saturday  after  Mr  Vincent's  visit, 
Tangent  was  well  pleased  with  the  results. 

"Mind  you,"  he  said,  "the  little  dwarf  isn't 
doing  so  badly  out  of  it  either.  He  gets  his 
regular  four  pounds  a  week.  This  week  I  see 
he's  had  one  pound  ten  in  cash  for  extra  work, 
and  you're  charging  twelve-and-six  for  a  present 
to  him.  What  was  the  present  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  bird  of  sorts.  The  little  beggar's  simply 
mad  about  birds.  That  did  more  good  than  if  I'd 
given  him  the  actual  cash." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  grumbling,  Bellowes,"  said  Tangent, 
surveying  with  complacency  the  diamond  ring  on 
his  ringer.  "  If,  by  giving  him  a  trifle  extra  now 
and  then,  you  can  keep  his  goodwill,  it's  quite 
worth  our  while  to  do  it.  No  man  will  work  for 
nothing,  and  I  suppose  he  finds  this  clairvoyance 
game  rather  exhausting.  Not  over  and  above 
good  for  the  health,  eh  ?  " 


SMEATH  35 

"  He  says  it's  exhausting.  He  seems  to  me 
well  enough." 

When  Tangent  had  gone  Bellowes  smiled.  To 
swindle  Tangent  was  a  real  pleasure  to  him,  even 
apart  from  the  profit  he  made  for  himself.  He 
remembered  the  terms  which  Tangent  had  forced 
him  to  accept  for  the  provision  of  capital  for  the 
enterprise. 

The  introduction  of  a  large  white  owl  into  the 
Bloomsbury  lodging-house  could  have  but  one 
effect.  The  maid-servant  gave  notice  at  once  on 
general  principles.  It  was  Smeath  this  time  who 
persuaded  her  to  remain. 

"  You  must  not  be  afraid  of  the  white  owl,"  he 
said.  "  Owls  are  wise  birds.  She  knows  who  my 
friends  are,  and  who  my  enemies  are.  You  are 
my  friend,  and  she  will  never  hurt  you.  She  will 
let  you  feed  her  and  stroke  her  feathers.  They 
are  very,  very  soft,  the  feathers  of  an  owl." 

In  a  week's  time  Jane  was  neglecting  her  work 
to  play  with  the  white  owl  out  on  the  leads. 


VII 


FOR  several  weeks  no  change  took  place.  Smeath 
did  his  work  with  patience  and  docility.  He 
addressed  Mr  Bellowes  with  respect.  He  made 
very  little  objection  to  private  engagements.  As 
a  munificent  reward,  on  two  occasions  Bellowes 
took  him  out  to  luncheon,  and  once  presented  him 


36  STORIES  IN  GREY 

with  some  Sunday  tickets  for  the  Zoo,  which  he 
himself  did  not  want.  Every  Saturday  Tangent 
inspected,  with  satisfaction,  some  purely  fantastic 
accounts.  Bellowes  was  specially  careful  that 
Smeath  and  Tangent  should  never  meet,  lest  the 
discrepancy  between  the  statements  in  the  books 
and  the  actual  facts  should  be  discovered. 

And  then  business  began  to  fall  off.  There  was 
no  excessive  drop,  but  the  previous  standard  was 
not  quite  maintained.  That  astute  showman,  Mr 
Bellowes,  decided  that  something  would  have  to 
be  done.  Some  new  feature  would  have  to  be 
introduced,  to  set  people  talking  again. 

"  Smeath,"  he  said  one  day,  "  didn't  you  tell  me 
something  once  about  a  white  owl  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Smeath,  "  I  have  one." 

"  It  does  tricks,  don't  it  ?  " 

"  It  does  a  few  things,"  said  Smeath,  grudgingly. 
"  You  do  not  want  it.  You  said  that  you  would 
leave  me  my  owl." 

"  You  needn't  get  into  a  stew  about  it,  and  do 
for  goodness'  sake  keep  those  great  hands  of  yours 
still.  They  get  on  my  nerves.  Nobody  wants  to 
take  your  blessed  owl  away  from  you.  The  only 
thing  that  I  was  wondering  about  was  whether  it 
might  not  be  worth  while  to  keep  the  bird  here, 
instead  of  at  your  lodgings." 

"  No,  sir !  No,  Mr  Bellowes !  It  is  in  my 
leisure  time  that  I  want  my  owl." 

"Well,  I  was  talking  to  Mr  Tangent  about  it, 
and  he  thought  it  was  a  good  idea ;  in  fact,  he 


SMEATH  37 

said  I  ought  to  have  done  it  before.  We  must 
think  about  it.  I  have  been  pretty  easy  with  you, 
Smeath." 

"  Also,  I've  worked  very  hard  for  you." 

"  You've  done  what  you  were  told,  and  of  late 
you've  given  me  no  trouble.  You  might  let 
Tangent  and  myself  have  a  look  at  the  bird, 
anyhow.  It  would  be  effective,  you  know — the 
dwarf  clairvoyant  and  the  great  white  owl  on  the 
back  of  his  chair.  Tangent  spoke  of  a  poster. 
I'll  tell  him  to  give  us  a  call  in  Bloomsbury  on 
Sunday  morning." 

"  I  do  not  want  my  owl  to  be  taken  away.  It 
lives  there  on  the  leads  outside  my  window.  Here 
it  would  be  unhappy.  How  could  I  leave  it  here 
all  night  alone  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  unreasonable,  Smeath.  You  will  see 
more  of  the  bird  then  than  you  do  now." 

"  No,"  said  Smeath.  "  The  greater  part  of  the 
time  when  I'm  here  I'm  like  a  dead  man,  and 
know  nothing." 

Bellowes  had  quite  realized  that  this  was  the 
point  on  which  Smeath  would  have  to  be  handled 
carefully. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  I  wouldn't  do  anything 
to  hurt  the  bird.  At  anyrate,  let  Mr  Tangent  and 
myself  see  it.  Let  us  see  if  it  can  really  do  the 
things  that  that  girl  Jane  jabbers  so  much  about. 
If  Tangent  and  I  think  it  would  be  an  asset  to  the 
show,  I  am  prepared  to  go  quite  beyond  our  agree- 
ment. I'll  give  you  two  or  three  shillings  for 


38  STORIES  IN  GREY 

yourself,  Smeath.  You  can  give  yourself  a  treat. 
You've  not  been  having  many  treats  lately ;  in 
fact,  you  look  just  about  half  starved." 

It  was  true.  The  little  dwarf  had  grown  very 
thin.  His  eyes  seemed  to  have  got  bigger  and 
brighter.  There  was  a  look  in  them  now  which 
would  have  made  Bellowes  suspicious  if  he  had 
noticed  it. 

"Jane,"  said  Smeath,  as  he  met  her  on  the  stairs 
that  night,  "  they  are  coming  on  Sunday  morning 
to  see  my  owl." 

"Then  they'll  see  miracles,"  said  Jane,  with 
confidence. 

"  And  they're  going  to  take  it  away." 

"If  that  bird  goes,  I  goes!" 

Smeath  burst  into  a  peal  of  mirthless  laughter. 

Mr  Tangent  arrived  in  a  taxi-cab  at  the  Blooms- 
bury  lodgings  at  eleven  on  the  following  Sunday 
morning.  He  was  in  a  bad  temper,  and  swore  and 
grumbled  profusely. 

"So  I've  got  to  turn  out  on  Sunday  morning 
and  work  seven  days  a  week,  just  because  you're 
such  a  damn  bad  showman,  Bellowes  ?  You've  let 
the  thing  down.  The  books  on  Saturday  were 
perfectly  awful." 

"I'm  not  a  bad  showman,  and  it's  not  my  fault. 
The  weather's  been  against  us,  for  one  thing.  And, 
besides,  no  novelty  lasts  for  ever.  We  must  put 
something  else  into  it  to  buck  it  up,  and  we  must 
get  that  poster  out." 

"That  means  more  expense.     I  don't  see  why 


SMEATH  39 

we  should  keep  on  paying  Smeath  four  pounds  a 
week  if  business  is  falling  off.  And  as  for  that 
rotten  old  owl  of  his,  I'm  no  great  believer  in  it. 
It  will  look  all  right  on  the  poster,  but  it  will  do 
no  good  in  your  Bond  Street  rooms.  I  know 
those  tricks.  The  bird  picks  out  cards  from  a 
pack,  or  shams  dead,  or  some  other  nursery 
foolery.  Stale,  my  boy,  hopelessly  stale." 

"  According  to  what  I  hear,  the  bird  does  none 
of  those  things.  It's  a  new  line." 

"  Is  it  ?  I'll  bet  a  dollar  it  ain't.  However,  tell 
Smeath  to  bring  it  down,  and  let's  get  it  over." 

"Smeath  won't  bring  it  down.  We  shall  have 
to  go  up  to  it.  He  makes  a  great  favour  of  show- 
ing it  to  us  at  all.  And,  if  you  will  take  my  tip, 
you'll  say  nothing  to  Smeath  beyond  a  good- 
morning.  I  can  tell  you  he  wants  devilish  careful 
handling  about  this  bird  of  his.  If  you  interfere, 
you'll  spoil  it.  All  you've  got  to  do,  if  you  think 
it  at  all  remarkable,  is  to  say  to  me  that  it  might 
possibly  do.  I  shall  understand.  Now  then,  come 
along  up ! " 

"  All  those  stairs  ! "  groaned  Tangent.  He  was 
a  heavy  and  plethoric  man.  When  they  reached 
Smeath's  room  he  stood  for  a  minute,  panting. 

The  room  was  ordinarily  dingy  enough.  It  was 
a  fine  morning,  and  the  sun  streamed  in  through 
the  window.  On  the  leads  outside  they  could  see 
the  great  white  owl  perched  on  the  bough  of  a  tree 
which  had  been  fixed  there.  Smeath,  with  his  hat 
off,  stood  beside  it,  and  seemed  to  be  talking  to  it. 


40  STORIES  IN  GREY 

Around  his  feet  were  a  flock  of  pigeons  and  sparrows. 
He  nodded  to  the  two  men,  and  then  gave  one 
wave  of  his  hands.  The  pigeons  and  sparrows 
flew  off  and  left  him  alone  with  the  white  owl. 

"  Funny  sight !  "  grunted  Tangent.  "  Devilish 
funny  sight ! " 

Smeath  opened  the  window,  and  called  into  the 
room  : 

"  Good-morning,  gentlemen  !  Will  you  come 
out?" 

"  Don't  much  like  it,"  said  Tangent.  "  I've  no 
head  for  this  kind  of  thing." 

"  Oh,  you're  all  right ! "  said  Bellowes.  "  You 
needn't  go  anywhere  near  the  edge." 

He  placed  a  chair  for  him,  and  Tangent  climbed 
out  on  to  the  roof,  followed  by  Bellowes. 

"  I  will  leave  you  to  look  at  the  bird  by  your- 
selves, gentlemen,"  said  Smeath,  and  stepped  down 
into  the  room. 

"Then  who's  going  to  make  the  bird  do  its 
tricks  ? "  asked  Tangent.  "  It's  a  fine-looking 
beggar,  anyhow.  Seems  about  half  asleep.  Tame 
enough."  He  passed  his  jewelled  hand  over  the 
snowy  plumage  on  the  bird's  breast.  "  There's  a 
feather-bed  for  you,"  he  said,  laughing. 

The  bird  opened  its  eyes,  and  leaped  straight 
into  the  face  of  Bellowes.  Its  plumage  half  stifled 
him,  its  sharp  claws  tore  his  eyes.  He  screamed 
for  help. 

Tangent,  in  horror,  had  flung  himself  down  flat 
on  the  leads,  covering  his  face.  Within  the  room 


SMEATH  41 

Smeath  stood  with  folded  arms,  watching  the 
scene  with  the  utmost  calmness. 

Bellowes  tore  at  the  bird  with  his  hands,  but 
step  by  step  it  forced  him  back.  There  came  one 
final  scream  from  him,  and  then  two  seconds  of 
silence,  and  then  the  thud  as  his  body  struck  the 
stones  below.  Up  above,  the  white  owl  flew 
swiftly  away. 

The  dwarf  rubbed  his  hands  and  laughed.  And 
then,  changing  his  expression  to  one  of  extreme 
dismay,  went  to  the  help  of  the  prostrate  Tangent. 


THE   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AN    IDEA 

I 

BEFORE   BIRTH 

I  AM  a  literary  idea.  Unborn  as  yet,  I  have  not 
the  incarnation  of  paper  and  printing  ink  which 
will  be  mine  hereafter.  I  am  conscious.  I  have 
knowledge  without  the  usual  apparatus  for  its 
acquisition  and  storage.  I  see  without  eyes,  and 
hear  without  ears.  I  move  as  I  will,  and  material 
things  cannot  hinder  my  movements.  They  are 
swifter  than  light,  and  just  as  swift  as  thought. 
You  know,  of  course,  that  if  an  idea  is  going  to 
come  to  you,  neither  locked  doors  nor  iron  walls 
will  prevent  it ;  it  arrives  inevitably  and  insuper- 
ably ;  you  are  to  be  its  parent  and  make  it  come 
into  the  world.  You  may  be  ranked  as  a  genius 
because  you  are  its  parent,  and  (this  amuses  me) 
you  will  think  that  you  are  its  parent  because  you 
are  a  genius. 

To  the  large  eyes  of  the  imagination  I  might  be 
pictured,  in  my  unborn  state,  as  a  Puck-like 
phantom  ;  only  the  imagination  can  see  me  until 
I  select  my  parent.  Ideas  have  that  privilege. 
Human  beings — on  very  slight  evidence — believe 

that  they  do  not  select  their  parents ;  but,  on  the 

42 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    43 

other  hand,  they  believe — on  no  evidence  at  all — 
that  they  do  select  their  ideas.  I  am  not  prescient, 
but  I  fancy  that  the  man  whom  I  select  for  my 
parent  should  be  a  very  happy  man.  I  am  a 
perfectly  brilb'ant  idea.  I  am  new,  and  I  am  a 
master ;  the  world  will  say  it.  I  shall  bring 
fortune  and  fame  to  my  parent.  Even  now — 
when  I  am  unborn  and  cannot  tell  the  precise 
form  that  I  shall  take — I  exult  in  my  own  utter 
goodness.  This  is,  of  course,  vain.  But  then 
humility  is  only  one  of  the  impositions  of  the  weak 
majority  upon  the  strong  minority,  to  enable  the 
weak  majority  to  keep  up  a  self-respect  to  which 
facts  do  not  entitle  it. 

I  decided  to  come  here.  Before  me  lies  a  vast 
mass  of  building  materials,  sorted  out  into  houses 
and  the  like,  and  known  on  the  eighteenpenny 
folding  map  as  "  London  and  its  Environs."  It 
swarms.  It  is  too  large.  Let  me  see  what  is 
immediately  before  me. 

Before  me  is  No.  23  Harriet  Terrace,  Fulham. 
It  is  a  new  terrace  of  thirty-pound  houses,  and 
there  is  no  external  difference,  except  the  number, 
between  23  and  the  rest.  It  is  the  residence  of 
Albert  Weeks,  literary  hack.  Shall  I  enter,  and 
bid  Albert  Weeks  be  my  parent  ?  I  should  bring 
him  money  and  reputation.  He  would  be  able  to 
live  in  a  better  house  than  this ;  people  would 
come  to  him  and  say,  "  Albert  Weeks,  where  did 
you  get  that  perfectly  splendid  idea  ?  "  He  would 
taste  popularity,  smile  complacently,  and  subscribe 


44  STORIES  IN  GREY 

to  a  press-cutting  agency.  Shall  I  select  him  or 
not?  He  might  possibly,  after  he  had  become  my 
parent,  be  unable  to  reach  the  same  level  again. 
But  that  disaster  rarely  happens.  Ideas  and  sheep 
follow  where  there  are  ideas  and  sheep  in  front  of 
them  ;  genius  is  more  often  chronic  than  acute.  I 
do  not  think  that  I  should  have  to  reproach  myself 
with  having  caused  him  ultimately  the  bitterest 
failure — the  failure  of  a  man  who  once  succeeded. 
But  shall  I  select  him  ? 

Albert  Weeks  is  married,  of  course,  and  has 
three  children.  His  wife  is  well-meaning,  but,  I 
fear,  a  trifle  under-educated.  He  met  her  in  the 
old  days  when  he  was  on  a  kind  of  a  spree;  his 
love-making  was  a  kind  of  a  spree ;  there  was  a 
touch  of  sheer  spree  even  in  his  marriage.  It  was 
all  irresponsible  —  enthusiastic  —  desperate  ;  and 
the  spree  is  well  out  of  their  lives  for  ever  and 
ever — unless  I  interfere.  They  are  still  heart-fond 
of  each  other,  though  she  has  ceased  to  remark  on 
his  cleverness  and  sometimes  is  almost  snappish, 
and  he  has  no  time  to  pet  her  because  he  is  so 
busy  for  so  little  remuneration. 

The  front  room  in  which  he  is  sitting  is  rather 
sordid.  They  call  it  the  drawing-room,  sometimes 
substitute  it  for  the  nursery,  and  habitually  use  it 
as  his  study.  There  is  a  quaint  gathering  of 
antagonistic  furniture.  He  bought  as  little  furniture 
as  possible  at  first — because  he  was  no  fool  and 
knew  that  they  would  have  to  be  economical — and 
he  has  added  to  it  since  on  occasions  when  he 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    45 

could  not  possibly  afford  it.  There  are,  for  instance, 
two  chairs  from  a  drawing-room  suite — two  only. 
These  are  covered  with  pale  green  velvet,  and  the 
velvet  is  covered  with  dust.  On  the  chair  nearest 
to  the  table  at  which  he  is  writing  stands  a  chipped 
cup  of  cold  tea,  surmounting  the  dust  and  the 
velvet.  The  cold  tea  seems  to  be  looking  upward 
with  a  grey,  patient  eye  at  the  gaudy  paper  lamp- 
shade, the  photogravure  of  "The  Prodigal  Son," 
and  the  smoked  ceiling.  It  is  a  room  that  must 
always  have  had  crumbs  in  it.  House-flies  go 
long  distances  in  order  to  die  in  this  room.  They 
have  died  conspicuously  and  frequently  in  it.  In 
one  corner  broken  and  bygone  bamboo  has  now 
definitely  despaired  of  ever  signifying  refinement ; 
and  in  the  one  piano-sconce  which  is  not  broken 
lingers  the  stump  of  a  candle  that  has  wept  its 
composite  heart  out  over  the  stained  keyboard — 
wept  for  the  death  of  the  flies,  and  the  despair 
of  the  bad  bamboo,  and  the  general  deadliness  of 
everything. 

There  is  on  the  table  a  handsome,  black-spotted 
wedding  present  of  an  inkstand.  In  front  of  it 
sits  Albert  Weeks  at  work.  He  is  rather  a  small 
man  with  sandy  hair,  and  the  frock-coat  which  he 
has  given  up  wearing  out-of-doors,  or  when,  as  his 
wife  says,  "  there  are  people."  There  are  not  any 
now,  for  he  is  alone  in  the  room.  The  expression 
of  his  face  is  careful.  He  has  to  be  careful,  because 
the  editor  of  The  Inner  Circle  was  by  no  means 
satisfied  with  his  last  batch  of  paragraphs,  and  he 


46  STORIES  IN  GREY 

cannot  afford  to  be  deprived  of  the  guinea  a  week 
which  he  receives  from  that  very  fashionable 
journal. 

The  editor  had  said — though  more  rudely, 
technically  and  briefly — that  either  Mr  Albert 
Weeks  would  have  to  convey  a  more  convincing 
impression  of  his  intimate  acquaintance  with  high 
society  or  The  Inner  Circle  would  dispense  with 
his  valuable  services.  The  words  that  the  Editor 
— who  was  rather  less  fashionable  than  his  penny 
panting  paper — actually  used  were,  "  More  savvy, 
or  outside  only,  my  dear  boy,  and  don't  you  forget 
it." 

What  are  you  to  do  when  you  are  too  good 
to  know  the  butler,  and  not  good  enough  for 
the  butler's  master  to  know  you  ?  This  is 
what,  I  perceive,  Albert  Weeks  is  doing,  writing 
laboriously : — 

"  The  season  is  dying  fast,  and  I  am  sure  that 
most  of  my  readers  will  agree  with  me  that  it  has 
been  an  unusually  brilliant  one.  So  everybody 
was  saying  to  me  at  Lady  Ballingham's  last  night. 
By  the  way,  Lady  Ballingham  must  have  the 
secret  of  eternal  youth;  last  night  she  looked 
more  beautiful  than  ever.  As  for  her  house  in 
Park  Lane,  I  have  always  considered  it  to  be  quite 
the  most  charming  town-house  that  I  have  seen 
in  the  whole  course  of  my  experience.  Well, 
the  long  round  of  delightful  and  luxurious — " 

Here  he  is  interrupted,  because  his  worn-out, 
striving,  vulgar,  respectable,  loving,  sharpish  wife 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    47 

had  come  into  the  room  with  a  blue  paper  in  her 
hand. 

"  Supper,  Albert ;  come  on  now.  Oh,  you  ain't 
touched  your  tea,  and  I  was  particular  to  bring  it. 
Are  you  comin'  ?  'Ennery  'as  broke  the  soap-dish 
in  the  nursery ;  that's  what  the  cryin'  was  about. 
This  here  is  Bilderspin's  for  what  he  did  to  the 
kitchen  range.  It's  high — one-seventeen-six." 

That  is  the  last  straw.  His  editor  has  bothered 
him.  His  work  has  bothered  him.  He  is  very 
tired.  A  paragraph — which  was  really  coming 
out  very  nicely — has  been  interrupted.  Money  is 
very  scarce.  And  supper  is  mere  mutton,  and  his 
wife  looks  rather  ill,  and  Bilderspin  is  one-seven- 
teen-six. The  combination  overpowers  him.  The 
little  man  throws  down  his  pen,  stamps  his  foot, 
and  swears  like  a  mad  blackguard  —  swears 
profusely. 

His  wife  takes  a  step  backward,  as  if  to  get  out 
of  the  room.  Then  her  face  becomes  twisted,  she 
sits  down  on  the  music-stool,  and  suddenly  begins 
to  cry.  She  is  shaken  with  sobs.  "Oh,  Albert! 
Oh,  Albert ! "  she  says,  over  and  over  again,  and 
then  :  "  How  can  you  be  so  cruel  ?  Aren't  things 
bad  enough  without  that  ?  " 

Then  he  goes  quickly  to  her,  and  is  remorseful. 
He  is  not  angry  with  her,  of  course.  It  is  only 
that  things  are  going  so  badly.  He  takes  her 
hand.  She  regains  her  composure.  She  is  sure 
that  he  is  quite  overworked,  but  he  ought  not  to 
give  way ;  on  the  contrary,  he  should  'ope  for  the 


48  STORIES  IN  GREY 


best.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  make-believe  cheer- 
fulness over  the  mere  mutton  subsequently. 

Now,  then,  shall  I  make  this  man  my  parent  ? 
If  I  crept  through  that  sandy  hair  into  the  whitey- 
grey  brain,  what  a  change  there  would  be.  He 
would  be  conscious  that  he  had  got  a  new,  tre- 
mendous, imperial  idea.  He  would  put  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  finish  the  beer  in  his  glass  at  one 
gulp,  explain  hurriedly  to  his  wife  that  he  was 
really  inspired  this  time,  and  rush  wildly  at  the 
handsome  inkstand  and  his  work.  By  the  follow- 
ing midday  I  should  be  in  manuscript.  In  six 
weeks  Albert  would  be  famous.  In  six  months  he 
would  have  real  money  and  no  debts,  and  there 
would  be  more  money  to  come.  There  would  be 
a  new  soap-dish,  new  furniture,  new  dresses  for  his 
wife.  'Ennery  would  have  toys  and  a  go-cart ; 
Albert  would,  on  little  occasions,  have  Heidsieck. 
They  would  be  off  to  the  seaside  for  a  fortnight, 
and  do  the  thing  well,  and  the  personal  paragraphs 
would  say  that  Mr  Weeks  and  his  family  were 
spending  the  winter  in  Brighton,  "  where  it  is  to 
be  hoped  that  this  new  and  brilliant  author  will 
not  allow  his  pen  to  be  idle."  No,  I  definitely 
decide  that  I  will  not  make  Albert  Weeks  my  parent. 
I  am  not  a  philanthropist ;  I  am  only  an  idea.  I 
do  not  want  to  benefit  Albert  Weeks,  and  I  do 
want  to  satisfy  my  own  whim.  My  own  whim 
definitely  refuses  Albert  Weeks. 

At  the  same  time,  I  am  in  a  great  hurry  to  be 
born.  I  have  knowledge,  but  it  is  limited.  For 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    49 

instance,  I  believe  that  I  am  an  idea  for  a  short 
story,  but  I  am  not  sure.  I  know  I  am  a  miracu- 
lously good  idea,  but  I  do  not  know  in  what  way 
I  am  miraculously  good.  I  yearn  to  see  myself  in 
my  final  form.  I  must  positively  get  born. 

Well,  let  me  examine  elsewhere. 

Here,  I  observe,  the  traffic  is  being  partially  dis- 
turbed by  a  long  funeral  procession  coming  briskly 
back  from  the  cemetery.  In  the  first  coach  is  a 
young  man  alone.  He  is  in  deep  mourning.  He 
has  drawn  the  window-blinds  down.  His  hat  is 
placed  on  the  front  seat.  He  himself  is  kneeling 
on  the  floor  of  the  coach ;  his  arms  sprawl  over 
the  back  seat ;  his  eyes  are  glaring,  hot  with  un- 
shed tears ;  he  bends  his  head  and  bites  the  wrist 
of  one  hand.  I  knew  his  name  at  once  and  some- 
thing about  him.  He  is  the  Hon.  Charles  Tumour 
Wylmot.  Away  in  the  cemetery  lies  the  still 
body  of  Maud  Farradyce,  whom  Wylmot  was  to 
have  married  two  months  hence  if  she  had  lived. 
The  agony  of  his  grief  would  not  be  doubted  by 
anyone  who  saw  him  now. 

Yet  Wylmot  is  a  man  who  has  always  doubted 
himself.  He  is  haunted  with  the  thought  that  he 
is  a  sham.  He  once  doubted  his  love  for  his 
books,  and  had  himself  put  up  for  a  sporting  club 
which  neither  interested  him  nor  desired  his 
membership.  The  reactionary  fit  was  bitter,  but 
it  was  short.  As  with  his  books  so  with  his  writ- 
ing. In  proud  moments  he  believes  that  he  is 
going  to  be  a  leader;  he  pays  for  his  pride  with 


50  STORIES  IN  GREY 

days  of  depression  when  he  doubts  whether  he  is 
even  capable  of  being  a  decent  follower.  As  with 
his  writing  so  with  his  love.  A  few  weeks  ago  he 
asked  himself  seriously  if  he  was  not  merely  trying 
to  be  romantic,  if  he  really  loved  this  Maud 
Farradyce  who  was  to  be  his  wife.  That  doubt 
went  before  the  pretty  yellow-headed  girl  died. 
And  now  he  does  not  doubt  his  sorrow. 

Yes,  the  Hon.  Charles  Tumour  Wylmot  shall  be 
my  parent.  He  shall  bring  me  into  the  world. 
Now,  as  he  sprawls  in  that  mourning-coach,  his 
wild,  aching  brain  shall  become  possessed  of  me. 
It  is  a  delightful  whim. 

In  I  go. 

II 

BIRTH 

THE  Hon.  Charles  Tumour  Wylmot  has,  later  in 
the  same  day,  in  the  solitude  of  his  comfortable 
chambers  overlooking  Piccadilly,  just  recovered 
from  rather  an  unpleasant  fit  of  hysteria.  Albert 
Weeks  would  have  thanked  God  for  me,  but 
Wylmot  positively  does  not  want  to  be  my  parent. 
He  would  cheerfully  sacrifice  a  year's  income  if  by 
so  doing  he  could  definitely  get  me  out  of  his 
head.  But  he  cannot.  I  am  going  to  be  born, 
and  this  is  the  first  part  of  the  process. 

The  trouble  is  that  1  am  inappropriate — horribly 
and  grotesquely  inappropriate ;  for  I  have  dis- 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    51 

covered  more  about  myself,  and  I  find  that  I  am 
a  humorous  idea.  I  am  the  newest,  the  most 
delicious,  the  most  inevitably  humorous  idea  that 
ever  has  been  or  ever  will  be.  The  bare  thought 
of  me  brings  a  deep  satisfaction  right  away  down 
in  the  very  pit  of  one's  appreciations.  At  first  I 
am  too  great  for  laughter,  but  the  laughter  comes. 
It  comes  in  chuckles ;  it  swells  and  grows  to 
shaking  paroxysms.  Here,  in  this  room,  but  half 
an  hour  ago,  Wylmot  at  last  reached  the  full 
appreciation  of  me.  It  had  been  growing  upon 
him  ever  since  the  moment  in  the  mourning-coach 
when  I  first  came  to  him.  There  had  been  at 
intervals  sudden  smiles  over  his  face,  succeeded  by 
an  expression  of  agonized  shame  and  contrition. 
But  at  the  full  appreciation  of  me  he  gave  up  the 
struggle  and  began  to  laugh.  He  threw  back  his 
head  ;  he  stamped  one  foot ;  he  held  his  sides  with 
both  hands  ;  he  roared  ;  he  howled  helplessly.  He 
staggered  about  the  room,  doubled  up  with  con- 
vulsions of  laughter ;  he  tried  to  stop,  but  could 
not ;  he  tried  again,  and  for  one  moment  gravity 
secured  a  foothold ;  then  it  slipped  and  off  he 
went  once  more,  worse  than  ever,  roaring,  howling, 
screaming,  purple  in  the  face. 

His  laughter  stopped  quite  suddenly,  as  great 
fits  of  laughter  often  do,  as  if  it  had  been  cut  short 
with  a  clean  stroke  of  a  knife.  He  took  out  his 
watch,  glanced  at  it,  and — just  as  he  had  realized 
the  full  humour  of  me — realized  the  full  horror  of 
the  situation.  Three  short  hours  before  he  had 


52  STORIES  IN  GREY 

stood  beside  an  open  grave,  wherein  he  did  then 
most  truly  believe  that  all  his  interest  and  all  the 
brightness  of  his  life  lay.  He  had  wanted  the 
world  to  stop  because  Maud  Farradyce  was  gone, 
and  there  was  nothing  else  of  importance.  He 
had  heard  the  robed  priest,  Maud's  cousin,  reciting 
in  a  voice  that  tried  to  be  steadier  than  it  was : 
"  From  henceforth  blessed  are  the  dead  which  die 
in  the  Lord."  He  had  become  unconscious  then 
of  the  service,  unconscious  of  anything  but  the 
burning  in  his  heart.  Someone  had  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder  when  it  was  time  to  go. 

That  was  three  hours  ago. 

And  yet  he  had  just  finished  a  fit  of  the  wildest, 
most  uncontrollable  laughter.  He  had  been  allow- 
ing himself  to  be  amused.  It  was  just  here  that 
Wylmot  had  that  unpleasant  attack  of  hysteria. 

He  has  recovered  from  it,  and  has  composed 
himself.  His  face  is  very  white  now,  and  he  looks 
rather  like  a  man  under  a  curse.  He  gets  out  his 
writing  materials.  "  Maud,"  he  says  softly,  "  you 
are  not  minding,  are  you?  This  damned  thing 
has  got  into  my  head.  I  didn't  want  to  think  of 
anything  humorous,  but  this  came  to  me.  Maud, 
it  would  make  the  dead  laugh — it  is  too  funny — 
and  I  don't  want  to  think  about  it  any  more. 
That  is  why  I  am  going  to  write  it  all  out.  Then 
perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  put  it  aside.  Oh,  Maud, 
don't  think  that  I'm  irreverent  and  unfeeling.  My 
heart  is  dead  and  with  you.  I  hate  myself  for 
having  laughed,  but  I  had  to.  I  will  get  rid  of 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    53 

this  idea  that's  haunting  me,  and  then  I  don't 
think  I  shall  ever  laugh  again." 

He  sits  down,  and  at  the  top  of  the  page  writes 
in  a  large  hand,  "  Ellen."  It  is  the  title  of  the 
story  which  is  to  embody  me.  He  writes  fast  for 
half  an  hour,  and  then  a  servant  brings  in  the 
lighted  lamps. 

"  Will  you  dine  in  to-night,  sir  ?  "  he  asks,  when 
Wylmot  looks  up  from  the  paper. 

"Yes— no — I  don't  know."  He  speaks  a  little 
absent-mindedly,  with  one  hand  on  his  forehead, 
shading  his  eyes,  as  though  he  held  the  idea  there 
and  were  afraid  that  it  would  escape.  I  have  no 
intention  of  escaping.  "  I'm  busy ;  if  I  want  to 
dine  I'll  go  to  the  club.  That  will  be  all  to-night." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

The  moment  the  servant  has  gone,  the  pen 
dashes  down  on  the  paper .  again,  as  though  it  had 
gained  an  additional  impetus  by  being  kept  back 
for  a  minute.  He  does  not  dine  out ;  he  does  not 
go  to  the  club.  He  writes  at  lightning  speed,  only 
pausing  to  laugh  from  time  to  time  more  wildly 
than  ever.  He  laughs  and  writes,  writes  and 
laughs,  on  and  on,  until  he  finds  that  the  lamps 
are  going  out,  and  glances  at  his  watch.  It  is  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  stack  of  paper  in 
front  of  him  is  the  finished  story — me  myself — 
me,  the  magnificently  humorous  idea. 

He  draws  back  the  curtain  and  lets  the  wan 
London  daylight  into  the  room.  He  realizes  that 
he  feels  very  exhausted  and  shaky,  goes  to  the 


STORIES  IN  GREY 

sideboard  in  an  adjoining  room,  and  gets  himsell 
some  brandy.  He  drinks  two  glasses  of  it  in  rapid 
succession ;  then  he  goes  off  to  bed.  He  is  too 
tired  for  any  further  emotion.  Laughter  and  tears 
alike  will  be  a  closed  book  to  him  until  he  has 
slept.  He  falls  to  sleep  at  once,  and  sleeps  long — 
heavily,  dreamlessly. 

And  I  lie  on  the  table  in  the  study,  new-born, 
in  a  snow-white  manuscript  incarnation.  Will  my 
reluctant  parent  burn  me  in  the  morning  ? 

Ill 
AFTER    BIRTH 

No,  I  am  safe — safe  in  a  foolscap  envelope, 
directed,  sufficiently  stamped,  whirled  about  by 
postal  arrangements. 

It  happened  in  this  way.  Wylmot  came  into  the 
study  rather  late  next  morning.  He  looked  beaten, 
humiliated,  tired,  and  half-starved.  He  cast  one 
vindictive  glance  at  me,  and  passed  into  the  next 
room,  where  breakfast  was  ready  for  him.  He  was 
rather  a  long  time  over  breakfast.  When  the 
emotional  heart  is  completely  broken  up,  the 
ordinary  blood-pumping  heart  will  still  go  on  with 
its  work.  So  with  the  other  organs.  Sorrow 
postpones  appetite  rather  than  destroys  it. 
Wylmot  had  no  dinner  on  the  day  of  Maud's 
funeral ;  he  had  quite  a  nice  breakfast  on  the 
following  morning. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    55 

He  came  back  to  me  at  last,  and  I  knew  that  he 
meant  to  destroy  me.  His  face  was  intentionally 
rigid,  the  lip  set  firm,  the  eye  merciless.  Yet 
somewhere  at  the  back  of  that  merciless  eye  lurked 
a  quite  different,  milder  expression.  The  fried  sole 
and  eggs  had  done  their  carnal  work ;  an  incon- 
gruous geniality  was  struggling  upward  in  him  ; 
he  was  going  through  the  disgusting  experience  of 
feeling  the  better  for  his  food.  However,  he  poked 
the  fire  fiercely ;  then  he  lit  a  pipe,  with  the  air 
that  he  did  not  care  about  it,  but  did  not  think 
it  worth  while  to  omit  it.  And  then  he  picked  me 
up,  to  hurl  me  in  the  fire.  As  he  held  me  in  his 
hand,  his  eye  rested  for  one  second  on  the  front 
page. 

In  that  one  second  my  young  life  hung  in  the 
balance.  It  was  a  moment  of  terrible  excitement 
for  me.  The  eye  glanced  through  a  few  lines,  and 
I  felt  a  shade  safer.  The  eye  twinkled.  Then  I 
knew  that  it  was  all  over,  and  that  my  future  was 
assured  ;  Wylmot  would  not  burn  me.  His  habit 
of  doubting  himself  had  triumphed  once  more. 

Of  course,  after  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
sit  down  before  the  fire  and  argue  it  out  with  him- 
self. The  story  should  be  published  in  The 
Cosmopolitan.  Why  not?  It  was  unhappy,  in- 
congruous, wretched  that  a  humorous  idea  should 
have  come  to  him  yesterday  of  all  days.  But  he 
had  not  sought  for  it.  He  had  even  struggled  to 
the  utmost  to  put  the  thing  out  of  his  head.  After 
all,  if  there  was  any  harm  done — if  there  had  been 


56  STORIES  IN  GREY 

any  sign  of  want  of  feeling  on  his  part — that  lay 
far  more  in  the  writing  than  in  the  publication  of 
the  story.  He  would  never  put  his  name  to  it,  of 
course.  No  one  should  be  able  to  say  that  Maud's 
lover  took  the  loss  of  her  lightly.  And  he  would 
take  no  remuneration  for  it.  He  would  forward 
the  amount  of  the  cheque  that  he  received  from 
The  Cosmopolitan  to  some  charity.  Besides,  what 
right  had  he  to  keep  that  story  from  the  public  ? 
It  might  not  be — probably  was  not — so  splendidly 
and  amazingly  good  as  he  had  imagined,  but  still 
he  knew  something  of  his  business,  and  he  knew 
that  it  would  be  likely  to  be  popular.  It  might 
cheer  many  who  were  ill  and  depressed,  and  add 
something  to  the  sum  of  human  happiness.  And 
he  did  not  think  that  the  critics,  with  their 
Athenian  longing  to  see  and  to  hear  some  new 
thing,  would  miss  noticing  the  novelty  and  spirit 
of  it.  Indeed  he  had  mingled  feelings  of  philan- 
thropy and  self-abnegation  as  he  sat  down  to  write 
(on  deep-edged  paper)  a  little  note  to  the  editor  of 
The  Cosmopolitan. 

To  a  certain  extent  he  deceived  himself.  If 
Albert  Weeks  had  voluntarily  surrendered,  on 
sentimental  grounds,  his  honorarium  for  a  short 
story,  there  would  have  been  something  in  the 
sacrifice.  But  Wylmot  had  a  private  income,  more 
than  sufficient  for  all  his  needs,  and  to  him  the 
surrender  of  the  cheque  meant  nothing.  His 
surrender  of  the  reputation  which  he  believed 
would  attach  to  the  author  of  "  Ellen  "  did  amount 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    57 

to  something,  for  he  had  the  weakness  cut  etiam 
saepe  boni  indulgent ;  but  it  did  not  amount  to  very 
much,  because  it  is  an  exceedingly  rare  thing  for  a 
single  short  story  to  attract  any  attention  at  all, 
and  although  Wylmot  believed  in  the  chance  of 
"  Ellen,"  he  knew  that  it  was  not  more  than  a 
thousand-to-one  chance.  Nor  was  there  very 
much  in  his  doubt  whether  he  had  the  right,  for 
the  sake  of  his  personal  sorrow,  to  deny  the  public 
an  enjoyment. 

The  real  reason  that  swayed  him  was  paternal 
love.  He  had  made  me  and  seen  that  I  was  very 
good.  He  could  not  commit  infanticide.  He 
liked  to  explain  himself,  but  his  curious  mixture  of 
intense  humility  and  some  subtle  vanities  always 
made  a  desperate  business  of  it  whenever  the  real 
explanation  was  some  simple  thing. 

His  note  to  the  editor  of  The  Cosmopolitan  ran 
as  follows : 

"MY  DEAR  ROGER,— If  you  will  read  the 
enclosed  story,  you  will  understand  how  gladly  I 
could  have  sent  it  to  you  a  few  weeks  ago.  As  I 
did  not  do  so  then,  I  do  so  now — but,  as  you  will 
imagine,  with  the  greatest  possible  reluctance.  I 
send  it,  because  I  do  really  think  that  it  is  the 
kind  of  thing  that  I  have  often  heard  you  say  you 
want.  The  only  condition  I  make  is  that  my  name 
shall  not  be  put  to  it,  or  disclosed  in  connection 
with  it.  I  send  it  you  to-day,  instead  of  waiting, 
because  I  am  leaving  England,  and  I  am  trying  to 


58  STORIES  IN  GREY 

put  my  house  in  order  before  I  go,  and  to  clear  up 
such  business  as  I  have  on  hand.  But  I  am  sure 
you  will  appreciate  how  eager  I  am  to  get  to  some 
place — any  place — where  solitude  and  silence  are 
possible.  I  fear  that  this  will  be  my  last  contribu- 
tion to  The  Cosmopolitan.  If  it  were  not  so 
melodramatic  to  say  so,  I  would  tell  you  that  from 
henceforth  I  am  practically  dead. — Yours  ever, 

"C.  T.  WYLMOT." 

Now  I  think  it  must  be  acknowledged  that,  for 
a  man  who  was  not,  as  a  rule,  a  liar,  this  letter  is 
from  a  liar's  point  of  view  distinctly  creditable. 

I  hold  that  letter  in  my  own,  somewhat  corpulent, 
manuscript  embrace.  It  and  I  together,  in  the 
twilight  seclusion  of  a  foolscap  envelope,  are  at 
present  being  whirled  through  postal  machinery. 

It  is  all  over.  My  embodiments  have  been 
multiplied,  since  The  Cosmopolitan  has  sold  out 
seven  editions  of  the  number  which  contains  me, 
to  a  marvellous  extent.  I  have  been  a  phenomenal 
and  unprecedented  success.  In  the  library  of  the 
country  house,  in  the  rectory,  in  Mayfair  drawing- 
rooms,  in  Bloomsbury  parlours,  in  working-men's 
clubs,  in  public-house  bars,  in  England,  in  America, 
in  the  Colonies — everywhere  where  English,  or  an 
approximation  to  it,  is  spoken — I  am  the  subject 
of  discussion.  There  is  a  touch  of  the  universal 
about  me,  and  already  the  translators  are  busy. 
Enthusiastic  critics  have  been  more  screamingly 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    59 

enthusiastic  than  ever  before  about  me ;  the 
severest  critics  have  unbent.  I  have  the  additional 
attraction  of  a  mystery.  Only  two  people  really 
know  who  wrote  me — Wylmot,  my  author,  and 
Roger  Birman,  his  editor — and  neither  of  them 
will  tell.  On  the  authorship  of  "  Ellen  "  only  two 
people  have  dared  to  question  Birman :  his 
assistant-editor  and  his  proprietor.  Birman  has 
told  neither,  and  quarrelled  with  both  ;  it  is  the 
day  of  his  glory,  and  he  can  afford  to  quarrel  with 
almost  anybody.  Canards  on  the  subject  of  my 
authorship  have  flown  over  the  country  in  dense 
flocks.  Albert  Weeks  has,  as  usual,  drawn  his 
long-bow  at  a  venture ;  and,  as  usual,  missed  the 
joints  of  the  harness.  This  is  his  little  paragraph 
on  the  subject : 

"  The  secret  of  the  authorship  of  *  Ellen '  has 
been  wonderfully  well  kept.  There  are  probably 
not  more  than  twenty  people  in  London  who  really 
know  it.  When  the  secret  is  told,  and — unless  un- 
foreseen circumstances  occur — it  will  be  told  very 
soon,  there  will  be  howling  and  gnashing  of  teeth 
among  various  uninformed  paragraphists  who  have 
been  spreading  their  rumours  on  the  subject.  As 
an  instance  of  the  importance  which  the  author 
attaches  to  the  secret,  I  may  say  that  one  of  the 
twenty  'in  the  know'  is  a  butler  who  became 
possessed  of  the  information  by  accident,  and  that 
he  is  to  be  rewarded  for  his  silence  with  an  annuity 
of  £200.  More  than  this  I  am,  unfortunately,  not 
permitted  to  say  at  present." 


STORIES  IN  GREY 

Of  course,  I  knew  from  the  first  that  I  was 
exceedingly  good,  but  still  it  is  very  pleasant  to 
have  it  acknowledged.  My  success  is  a  joy  to  me ; 
it  is  also  a  joy  to  Birman  ;  it  is  also  a  joy — and 
this  is  really  terrible — to  the  Hon.  Charles  Tumour 
Wylmot.  For  in  this  latter  case  I  fear  the  re- 
action. Letters,  forwarded  by  the  secret  hand  of 
Birman,  have  come  to  him  from  the  office  of  The 
Cosmopolitan.  For  many  editors  have  been 
anxious  to  communicate  with  the  author  of 
"  Ellen,"  care  of  The  Cosmopolitan.  He  has 
answered  none  of  them.  Yet,  just  for  a  minute, 
he  has  hesitated.  At  this  time  he  carefully 
abstains  from  any  thought  of  Maud ;  if  such  a 
thought  arises,  he.  puts  it  out  of  his  head  again 
feverishly.  That  is  the  trouble — he  dare  not  think 
about  Maud. 

Maud  is  apparently  not  to  be  denied.  The 
power  of  the  dead  has  come  forth.  Wylmot's 
heart  and  brain  are  filled  with  Maud  now.  He 
sees  her  eyes  on  him,  and  hears  her  voice  in  day- 
dreams and  night-dreams.  He  is  alone  in  his 
rooms,  doing  nothing,  frightened,  sickened, 
humiliated  ;  it  seems  to  him  that  he  had  once  the 
belief  that,  with  all  his  faults,  he  was  at  least  a 
man  of  feeling  and  honour,  and  that  he  has  now 
lost  the  belief,  and  that  he  cannot  live  without  it. 

He  starts  from  the  chair,  and  paces  the  room 
slowly  in  utter  agony ;  his  brows  are  contracted  ; 
his  eyes  ache  ;  sometimes  his  hands  close  convul- 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    61 

sively  ;  sometimes  he  draws  a  deep  breath,  like 
one  who  is  enduring  a  torture  that  kills. 

It  is  the  reaction.     It  began  yesterday. 

Yesterday  he  noticed  that  he  felt  uneasy  when- 
ever he  looked  at  the  little  oil-painting  of  Maud 
that  hung  above  his  mantelpiece.  He  thought 
that  must  be  because  the  portrait  did  no  true 
justice  to  her,  or  because  it  distressed  him  that  any- 
other  eyes  but  his  own  should  see  Maud's  picture. 
During  the  whole  period  of  joy  in  the  funny 
successful  story  that  he  wrote  on  the  night  that 
Maud  was  buried,  he  had  been  ready  with  shoals 
of  euphemistic  cheerful  arguments  to  prove  that  he 
was  acting  finely.  Yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
uneasiness  that  he  felt  arose  from  a  kind  of  fear. 
He  decided  to  lock  the  portrait  away  with  her 
letters  in  the  bureau.  As  he  was  doing  so,  his  eye 
fell  on  the  first  note  that  he  had  ever  received  from 
Maud — merely  an  invitation  to  dinner,  written  to 
save  her  mother  the  trouble,  written  in  shy,  formal 
language,  and  commencing  with  "  Dear  Mr 
Wylmot."  An  impulse  seized  him  to  look 
again,  by  way  of  contrast,  at  the  last  letter  that 
he  had  ever  had  from  her.  It  was  written  in 
pencil,  just  at  the  beginning  of  Maud's  sudden  and 
fatal  illness.  It  began  thus  : — 

"  They  tell  me  I  am  very  ill,  Charley,  and  they 
won't  let  me  write  more  than  just  a  little  letter. 
They  say  that  they  will  send  you  a  longer  letter 
themselves  all  about  the  illness.  Oh,  my  poor 
dear  one,  I  must  tell  you  !  I  got  it  out  of  the 


62  STORIES  IN  GREY 


k^^r. 


doctors  that  they  think  I  am  going  to  die,  perhaps. 
But  I'm  not !  You've  made  my  life  so  sweet  that 
I  won't  leave  it.  I  can't  die  and  be  taken  away 
from  you.  Do  not  be  despairing,  my  lover ; 
doctors  so  often  make  mistakes,  you  know,  and  I 
am  sure  that  I  shall  get  better.  How  could  I  die 
when  you've  made  living  so  well  worth  while? 
Oh,  dear  lover,  did  any  man  ever  love  so  finely 
and  nobly  as  you !  I  don't  deserve  you — no,  I 
don't." 

The  letter  shook  in  Wylmot's  trembling  hand. 
It  was  with  difficulty  that  he  read  on  : — 

"  I  cried  so  much  last  night,  and  you  weren't 
there  to  comfort  me,  and  I  was  so  lonely.  Why — ' 

He  had  to  stop  there.  His  throat  moved  involun- 
tarily, and  he  was  on  the  verge  of  sobbing. 
Moving  slowly  and  quietly,  he  put  the  letters  back 
in  the  bureau  and  the  portrait  back  in  its  place  on 
the  wall.  He  sat  down  in  front  of  the  portrait  and 
gazed  at  it — a  pretty,  yellow-haired  girl  with 
mournful  eyes,  who  had  loved  him  well  and  thought 
him  noble.  And  God  had  taken  her  and  left  him 
to  the  composition  of  an  intensely  humorous  story. 
Now  that  he  has  lost  the  belief  in  himself  as  a  man 
of  feeling  and  honour  he  cannot  live  without  it. 
Late  at  night  he  goes  out.  He  goes  down  to  the 
Embankment  with  the  intention  of  killing  himself. 

He  does  not  do  it  because  he  arrives  there  just 
in  time  to  stop  another  man  from  killing  himself. 
The  other  man,  a  stranger  to  Wylmot,  is  a 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    63 

young  man  with  sandy  hair — to  wit,  Mr  Albert 
Weeks. 

"  I  think,"  says  Wylmot,  speaking  firmly,  but 
with  a  curious  smile  on  his  face,  "  you  had  better 
come  back  with  me  to  my  rooms  and  talk  this 
over."  He  stops  a  passing  cab. 

"  What's  it  got  to  do  with  you  ? "  Weeks  begins. 

"  You  happen  to  have  saved  my  life." 

"  That's  a  lie.  You  saved  mine,  though  I  didn't 
want  your  damned  interference.  You  pulled  me 
back  as  I  was  on  the  parapet.  What  do  you 
mean  by  saying  /  saved  your  life  ?  " 

"  Ah  ! "  Wylmot  says,  with  the  same  dreary  smile, 
"  that  is  what  I  want  you  to  come  and  talk  about. 
I  also  had  intended  to  commit  suicide.  Surely 
that  is  sufficient  introduction.  Come  now ;  get 
into  the  cab." 

At  Wylmot's  chambers  the  servant,  with  an 
anxious  expression  on  his  face,  let  them  in.  It 
vanished  as  he  saw  Wylmot.  He  had  been 
nervous  about  his  master,  and  he  was  glad  to  see 
him  no  longer  alone  and  looking  in  better  spirits. 

"  Have  you  dined  ?  "  Wylmot  asked  Weeks. 

"  I  don't  care  for  it,"  Weeks  answered  doggedly. 

"No?  Nor  do  I.  We  will  suppose  dinner. 
Francis,  bring  coffee.  Yes,  and  we  will  have  a 
bottle  of  the  port."  Francis  recognized  the  force 
of  the  definite  article. 

Albert  Weeks  felt  mazed  and  wondering.  Were 
the  events  of  the  last  few  days  that  had  driven  him 


64  STORIES  IN  GREY 


to  desperation  unreal,  or  was  this  unreal?  The 
two  men  had  drawn  their  chairs  up  in  front  of  the 
fire.  Albert  Weeks  sipped  the  fragrant  coffee  and 
blinked  his  eyes ;  he  was  in  a  kind  of  dream. 
Through  it  he  heard  Wylmot  speaking. 

"  Yes,  if  it  had  not  been  for  you,  I  should  have 
drowned  myself  to-night.  The  sight  of  another 
man  on  the  verge  of  committing  exactly  the  same 
act  suddenly  showed  me  that  suicide  was  running 
away.  One  should  not  run  away.  It  is  not 
brave,  though  brave  men  have  done  it  through 
sudden  panic.  You  have  placed  me  under  a  very 
great  obligation  to  you." 

Weeks  shook  his  head.     "  You  saved  me  too." 

"  No,  no,  I  saved  you  from  an  isolated  act.  You 
saved  me  from  an  entirely  wrong  principle.  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  make  myself  clear.  But  I 
feel  the  obligation  deeply,  and  I  will  speak  of  it 
again  afterwards.  In  the  meantime  you  should 
know  my  name."  He  handed  Weeks  a  card. 

Weeks  glanced  at  it  and  said  :  "  I  have  no  card, 
but  my  name  is  Albert  Weeks,  and  I  used  to  live 
at  No.  23  Harriet  Terrace,  Fulham.  I  was  a 
journalist.  I  failed.  I  used  to  be  on  The  Inner 
Circle  but  I  got  kicked  off.  Do  you  know  The 
Inner  Circle?" 

"  I've  seen  the  posters,  but  I  cannot  say  that 
I've  ever  read  it." 

"  It's  nothing  much  to  read,  but  it  was  all  I  had 
to  live  on.  I'm  married,  with  children.  It  was 
very  difficult  to  get  along.  Sometimes  I  got  a 


Thft 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    65 

short  thing  taken  elsewhere,  not  often.  I  borrowed 
a  little  money  on  my  furniture.  When  I  got 
kicked  off  The  Inner  Circle  I  couldn't  pay  the 
interest  due,  and  so  the  Jews  took  the  furniture. 
My  wife  and  the  children  have  gone  to  her  married 
sister — a  Mrs  Warboys.  She  wouldn't  have  me, 
and  she  grudges  the  shelter  that  she  gives  my  wife 
and  children  ;  they'll  come  to  the  workhouse.  So 
I  haven't  lived  anywhere  the  last  two  days.  To- 
night I  sold  the  last  thing  I  had.  It  was  my 
mother's  wedding-ring.  I  thought  I'd  buy  myself 
a  good  dinner  before  I  died." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  I'd  got  into  the  habit  of  giving  my  wife 
anything  that  I  happened  to  make,  so  I  went  into 
a  post-office  and  sent  it  off  to  her  without  thinking." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Wylmot. 

"  Well,  there  wasn't  much  more.  In  the  letter  1 
sent  from  the  post-office,  I  told  her  I  had  a  berth 
to  go  abroad,  and  if  I  could  make  anything  I  would 
send  it.  I've  cut  my  name  off  the  linen.  If  I'd 
once  got  into  the  river,  there  would  have  been 
nothing  to  identify  me  by.  So  she'd  have  got  used 
gradually  to  being  without  me.  And  her  married 
sister  would  have  felt  she'd  more  claim  for  support 
if  she  had  no  husband." 

"  Now  I  must  tell  you  about  myself." 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  know  a  little  about  you.     I've 
seen  signed  things  by  you  in  The  Cosmopolitan.     I 
was  never  one  of  the  lucky  ones — they  wouldn't 
take  me  on  the  swell  magazines." 
E 


66  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"Did  you  read 'Ellen'?" 

"  Read  it  and  roared  over  it." 

"  So  did  I." 

"  They  kept  the  secret  well.  I  suppose  they 
didn't  tell  you  who  wrote  it  ?  " 

"  No,  they  never  told  me.     Fill  your  glass  again." 

Albert  Weeks  did  so.  The  wine  was  warming 
him,  giving  him  a  little  more  self-confidence  and 
geniality. 

"  This  is  beautiful  port,"  he  said,  "  really  beautiful 
port.  I  can't  understand  why  you  should  have 
wanted  to  commit  suicide.  You  have  no  money 
troubles  ?  " 

"  None." 

"You  live  in  these  comfortable  chambers  in 
perfect  luxury,  with  a  butler  and  everything.  You 
can  get  your  stuff  taken  by  the  very  best  papers. 
I  don't  say  that  you've  made  a  real  hit,  like  the 
man  who  wrote  '  Ellen,'  but  you  must  be  good  to 
get  into  The  Cosmopolitan" 

"  It's  so  much  better,  you  know,  Weeks,  to  be  a 
good  man  than  to  be  a  good  author.  I  had  done 
a  disgraceful  thing.  It  did  not  involve  public 
disgrace ;  it  was  not,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  an 
offence  at  all.  But  it  took  away  my  self-respect, 
and  I  did  not  feel  as  if  I  could  live  without  it.  It 
was  driving  me  mad.  I  would  rather  not  speak  of 
the  details." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Weeks. 

"  Now  I  want  to  talk  over  some  plans  for  you, 
but  I  must  first  write  a  letter.  Will  you  excuse 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IDEA    67 

me  ? "  The  letter  was  soon  written,  and  given  to 
Francis  to  post. 

"  Now  then,"  said  Wylmot,  standing  before  the 
fire,  "  as  we  have  finished  our  wine  we  will  smoke. 
A  cigar?  It  seems  to  me  indicated.  As  I  said 
before,  without  intending  it,  you  have  placed  me 
under  a  very  great  obligation.  I  feel  sure  that  you, 
as  a  gentleman,  will  understand  that  I  should  like 
to  show  my  sense  of  the  position.  As  some  slight 
acknowledgment  of  the  great  service  that  you  have 
rendered  me,  I  have  just  sent  instructions  to  my 
solicitors  by  which  you  will,  on  my  decease,  receive 
a  legacy  of  one  thousand  pounds.  You  want 
money  now,  and  I  want  to  give  it  you,  but  of 
course  you  would  not  consent  to  the  humiliation 
of  receiving  a  present  of  money.  A  legacy  is  a 
different  matter ;  and  one  can  take  a  legacy." 

"  I — I  do  not  know  how  to  thank  you,"  said 
Weeks.  "  I  could  not,  of  course,  have  accepted  a 
present  of  money." 

"  Now  I  must  tell  you  my  plans  for  you.  You 
love  your  wife  ?  " 

"  She  and  the  children  are — well,  they're  natur- 
ally the  principal  thing." 

"  Now  it  is  quite  evident  to  me  that  it  is  your 
duty  to  take  them  into  the  country  for  a  holiday. 
You  look  overworked." 

"  Oh,  I  worked  pretty  hard,  but  it  didn't  come  to 
anything.  I  failed." 

"Very  likely  from  overwork.  Your  wife  and 
children,  too,  will  want  a  change.  You  must  be 


68  STORIES  IN  GREY 


away  at  least  two  months.  When  you  come  back, 
I  will  give  you  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  The 
Cosmopolitan  ;  he  will  do,  I  may  say,  a  good  deal 
for  me.  If  you  can  write,  he  will  let  you  write.  If 
not,  he  will  find  some  other  remunerative  occupa- 
tion for  you.  And,  I  think,  you  would  probably 
like  to  discharge  any  pecuniary  obligation  that  you 
may  be  under  to  Mrs  Warboys." 

"  I  should.  But  it  is  impossible.  There  is  no  money." 
"Oh,  some  arrangement  can  easily  be  made. 
Let  me  see.  Why  not  borrow  a  hundred  from  me, 
giving  me  your  I.O.U.  ?  Even  if  it  is  not  con- 
venient for  you  to  pay  before  my  decease,  the  sum 
to  which  you  are  entitled  under  my  will — " 

"  Stop,"  said  Weeks.  "  It  doesn't  take  me  in. 
You're  giving  me  money  ;  I  take  it  with  gratitude. 
You've  saved  my  life,  and  you've  made  it  possible 
for  me  to  go  on  living.  And  you've  done  it  all  so 
kindly,  treating  me  as  an  equal,  and  no  one's  been 
like  this  to  me  for  a  long  time — and,  damn  it,  I 
can't  even  speak  about  it ! "  He  rose  and  turned 
to  the  window  with  a  sob  in  his  throat. 

Albert  Weeks  holds  a  sub-editorial  post  on  The 
Cosmopolitan  now.  He  has  a  very  comfortable 
little  flat  in  South  Kensington.  Wylmot  did  his 
best  to  live  without  self-respect.  He  lasted  a  few 
years  wearing  himself  out  with  work.  He  died  of 
something  quite  commonplace. 

But  I  am  still  remembered.  I  am  still  the  standard 
of  humour  to  which  nothing  more  recent  approaches. 


iMr 


BURDON'S  TOMB 
I 

THE   EARTHQUAKE 

MRS  LANGLEY  and  her  companion,  Miss  Gilderay, 
both  thought  rather  well  of  Mr  Agravine.  It  was 
their  first  visit  to  Egypt,  and  Mr  Agravine's 
greater  experience  had  been  of  use  to  them.  He 
was  quiet  and  without  presumption,  an  elderly 
man  with  tired  and  rather  magnetic  eyes.  "  He 
has  a  story,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Gilderay. 

"We  all  have,"  said  Mrs  Langley;  "and  we 
never  tell  them." 

Miss  Gilderay  blushed.  She  was  plain,  kindly, 
sincere,  and  thirty-five.  Mrs  Langley  was  five 
years  older  and  looked  five  years  younger.  She 
was  not  beautiful,  but  everybody  said  she  had  nice 
eyes  and  a  pretty  figure. 

"  I  am  glad  he  is  coming  on  the  Rameses"  said 
Mrs  Langley.  "  He  is  useful.  He  has  done  it  all 
before,  and  he  knows  more  than  the  dragomans. 
Of  course,  Mr  Castle  is  useful  too.  A  frightful 
nuisance,  though." 

"  Oh,  frightful !  "  Miss  Gilderay  assented.  "  Still, 
one  feels  sorry  for  him." 

In  the  lounge  of  the  hotel  after  dinner  that 
69 


70  STORIES  IN  GREY 

night  Mr  Agravine  spoke  to  them  about  Sir  Felix 
Burdon's  tomb.  The  tomb  was  thus  spoken  of 
by  careless  people  in  Cairo  and  Luxor,  but  Sir 
Felix  had  merely  been  its  excavator,  and  the  work 
of  excavation  was  not  yet  quite  complete.  It  was 
the  tomb  of  a  high  priest  who  had  died  in  Thebes 
twelve  hundred  years  before  Christ  was  born.  It 
was  of  considerable  size  and  importance,  and  its 
mural  paintings  were  interesting  and  well-pre- 
served. Mr  Agravine  wished  particularly  to  see 
this  tomb,  and  said  he  should  try  if  anything 
could  be  arranged  through  the  dragoman  on  the 
boat.  He  was  describing  some  interesting  points 
about  this  tomb  when  young  Mr  Castle  came  up 
and  joined  the  group.  He  was  always  doing  that, 
and  sometimes  he  was  a  nuisance.  He  was  a 
young  man  of  twenty-eight,  travelling  by  himself 
and  paying  a  good  deal  for  excess  luggage.  He 
was  possessed  of  many  and  elaborate  clothes. 
Chance  propinquity  at  the  hotel  dinner  had  intro- 
duced Mr  Agravine,  and  Mr  Agravine  had  in  turn 
presented  Mr  Castle.  This  had  been  at  Mr  Castle's 
request,  for  he  had  very  nearly  decided  to  fall  in 
love  with  Mrs  Langley.  She  was  just  enough 
interested  in  him  to  flirt  with  him,  and  only  just. 
To-night  she  sent  him  away  at  once.  "  Go  and 
find  out  the  name  of  that  very  beautiful  girl  with 
the  red  hair." 

The  girl  with  the  red  hair  was  travelling  with 
two  elderly  ladies,  who  were  set  in  a  totally  differ- 
ent key  from  her.  The  old  ladies  were  Victorian. 


BURDON'S  TOMB  71 

The  girl  looked  as  if  she  had  walked  straight  out 
of  a  German  fairy  tale. 

Mr  Castle  did  not  know  his  way  about  at  all. 
At  the  end  of  the  evening  he  had  not  got  the 
required  information.  He  came  back  to  Mrs 
Langley,  and,  though  she  laughed,  she  sent  him 
away  again.  She  was  definitely  not  going  to 
speak  to  him  any  more  until  he  could  tell  her 
what  she  wanted  to  know. 

Chance  gave  it  to  him  next  morning.  He 
happened  to  see  the  girl  come  out  of  her  room, 
and  he  noted  the  number.  He  had  only  to  look 
now  at  the  numbers  in  the  hall  and  see  what 
name  was  attached.  He  went  to  Mrs  Langley  in 
triumph.  "  I've  got  it,"  he  said.  "  She  is  Miss 
AveriL" 

"Who  is?" 

"  The  red-haired  girl  that  you  wanted  to  know 
about.  She  is  travelling  with  two  sisters — Miss 
Brya'ns.  They  are  probably  her  aunts." 

"  I  don't  think  I  care,"  said  Mrs  Langley.  "  It 
was  really  her  first  name  that  I  wanted  to  know." 

The  subject  turned  up  again  on  the  first  day  of 
their  departure  from  Cairo  on  the  Rameses.  Miss 
Averil  and  her  two  aunts  happened  also  to  be 
going  on  to  Assouan  on  the  Rameses,  and  Mrs 
Langley,  in  a  comparatively  short  space  of  time, 
had  taught  Miss  Bryan  an  entirely  new  patience. 
As  she  walked  the  deck  that  evening  after  dinner 
with  Mr  Castle  by  her  side  she  said,  "What  an 
idiot  you  are,  if  you  do  not  mind  my  saying  so. 


72  STORIES  IN  GREY 

You  never  found  out  that  girl's  name  at  all.  I  give 
two  minutes  to  it,  and  find  out  everything  myself." 

"  And  what  is  her  first  name  ?  "  asked  Mr  Castle, 
patiently. 

"Well,  you  ought  to  know.  You  ought  to  be 
able  to  deduce  it  from  looking  at  her." 

"  Yseult  ?  "  suggested  the  young  man. 

"Oh,  goodness,  no.  Her  name  is  Zoe.  Don't 
you  think  that's  right  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Mr  Castle.  "Zoe  is  a  maid  of 
Athens,  very  nearly  as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades." 

"  Rubbish  !  Anyhow,  Zoe  Averil  is  not  a  maid 
of  Athens.  She  is  a  maid  of  Oxford.  And  what 
Oxford  has  done  to  deserve  it  I  don't  know.  Her 
aunts  are  highly  cultivated  and  belong  to  a 
Browning  society.  Now,  why  don't  you  find  out 
interesting  things  and  tell  them  to  me?  You 
never  seem  to  know  anything." 

She  sent  him  to  fetch  French  coffee  for  her,  and 
when  he  brought  it  decided  that  she  would  take 
Turkish  coffee  that  night.  Really,  she  did  not 
treat  him  very  well.  Her  manner  with  Mr  Agravine 
was  quite  different. 

On  the  day  that  they  arrived  at  Luxor  Mr  Agra- 
vine  told  them  that  there  was  quite  a  chance  that 
they  would  be  able  to  see  Burdon's  tomb.  The 
dragoman  of  the  boat  had  been  Sir  Felix  Burdon's 
dragoman  during  his  first  season  in  Egypt.  He 
had  assisted  him  since  in  some  trouble  that  Sir 
Felix  had  had  with  his  labourers.  It  was  quite 
possible  that  he  would  be  able  to  arrange  it. 


BURDON'S  TOMB  73 

The  dragoman  did  arrange  it.  Chance  favoured 
him.  Sir  Felix  was  waiting  for  some  heavy  timbers, 
and  meanwhile  the  work  of  excavation  had  ceased. 
He  cursed  the  dragoman  sincerely.  He  said  most 
insulting  and  improbable  things  about  the  drago- 
man's ancestry.  He  told  him  that  if  he  ever 
suggested  such  a  thing  again  he  would  break  his 
head  with  a  stick  ;  but  none  the  less  he  permitted 
him  to  bring  up  his  gang  from  the  Rameses  on  the 
following  day.  They  were  not,  of  course,  to  enter 
the  two  chambers  of  the  tomb  which  Sir  Felix 
used  as  his  living-room  and  stores. 

The  party  from  the  Rameses,  about  thirty  in 
number,  crossed  the  river  from  Luxor  and  rode 
five  miles.  They  halted  and  dismounted  at  the 
top  of  the  long  slope  which  led  down  to  the 
tomb. 

Led  by  the  dragoman,  the  procession  of  tourists 
passed  down  the  sandy  slope  into  the  darkness, 
under  a  crest  piled  with  great  rocks.  Then  came 
the  burning  of  magnesium  wire  and  the  dragoman's 
lecture — a  little  sketchy,  because  he  did  not  know 
the  tomb — on  the  paintings  and  inscriptions.  He 
was  most  impressive.  "This  tomb  never  been 
shown  before,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  Special 
permit.  No  other  dragomans  can  show  it." 

He  scooped  up  two  inquiring  Germans,  who 
would  have  made  a  dash  for  that  part  of  the  tomb 
which  they  had  been  particularly  requested  not  to 
enter,  and  shepherded  his  party  out  into  the  open 
again — all  but  five  of  them. 


74  STORIES  IN  GREY 

Just  as  these  five  were  leaving,  they  found  them- 
selves confronted  by  a  man  in  grey  flannel  trousers 
and  an  old  Norfolk  jacket  of  brown  canvas.  He 
reminded  Mrs  Langley  at  once  of  Don  Quixote. 
He  began  to  speak  to  them  about  what  they  had 
seen,  and  he  spoke  with  evident  knowledge  and 
authority. 

Miss  Gilderay  whispered  a  word  to  Mrs  Langley, 
and  Mrs  Langley  said,  "  I  suppose  so,"  and  turned 
to  the  stranger  : — 

"  You  are  Sir  Felix  Burden,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  my  name." 

"  I  asked  you  because  we  wanted  so  much  to 
thank  you  for  letting  us  come  in  here.  It's  too 
interesting  for  words.  I  hope  we  haven't  been 
interrupting  your  work  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Sir  Felix.  "We  don't  start 
digging  again  till  to-morrow.  I  was  just  waiting 
for  some  stuff  to  come  up  from  Luxor.  I  shall  be 
living  here  for  the  next  two  months,  you  know." 

"  Living  here  ?  "  said  Miss  Gilderay.  "  Actually 
in  this  tomb  ? " 

"  Why  not  ?  In  here  or  in  a  tent  just  outside. 
I  make  myself  very  comfortable,  and  it  saves  the 
bother  of  going  backwards  and  forwards." 

"It  seems  wonderful.  I  supposed  that  you 
lived  on  the  Lotus.  We  saw  it  just  above 
Luxor." 

"  Last  year  I  used  the  dahabeeyah  a  good  deal, 
and  I  am  meaning  to  dine  and  sleep  there  to-night ; 
but  the  Lotus  leaves  to-morrow  for  Assouan, 


BURDON'S  TOMB  75 

taking  some  friends  of  mine  who  are  to  go  on  to 
the  Second  Cataract." 

As  he  spoke  he  glanced  over  the  party.  Mr 
Castle  carried  Mrs  Langley's  camera  and  fly-whisk. 
Mrs  Langley  looked  charming  and  Miss  Gilderay 
earnest,  and  a  pretty  girl  with  red  hair  was  talking 
to  Mr  Agravine  on  one  side. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  Sir  Felix,  cheerfully ; 
"  there's  a  very  interesting  bit  of  painting  in  that 
second  chamber  on  the  left  there,  and  I  think  your 
dragoman  missed  it.  I  should  really  like  to  show 
you  that.  I  will  get  candles." 

"  It's  very,  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Mrs  Langley. 
"  But  won't  they  be  waiting  for  us  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  hope  so.  Your  dragoman  knows  that 
you  are  speaking  with  me,  and  therefore  he  must 
wait.  We  shan't  keep  them  five  minutes." 

He  dived  away  into  the  darkness  as  he  spoke, 
and  returned  with  a  box  of  candles. 

As  they  were  lighting  their  candles  it  chanced 
that  he  heard  Mr  Agravine's  name  mentioned. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Sir  Felix,  "  are  you  Mr  Agra- 
vine,  the  collector,  the  great  authority  on  Corot  ?  " 

"A  great  authority  on  nothing,  I'm  afraid.  But 
I've  been  a  collector  of  pictures  all  my  life,  to  my 
sorrow." 

"  But  why  to  your  sorrow  ?  " 

"  A  long  story,  and  I  should  be  ashamed  to  tell  it." 

"When  we  get  back  to  the  boat,"  said  Miss 
Gilderay,  as  she  lighted  her  candle,  "  the  rest  will 
be  very  jealous  of  us." 


76  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"  What  on  earth  for  ?  "  asked  Sir  Felix,  laughing. 

"Because  we  have  special  privileges.  The 
others  have  only  had  a  dragoman  ;  we  get  the  real 
explorer." 

"Can't  understand  jealousy,"  said  Sir  Felix, 
"  even  if  it's  anything  of  importance." 

"Why  not?"  Mrs  Langley  asked. 

Sir  Felix  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  To  the  ancient  Egyptian,"  he  said,  "  death  was 
the  only  important  thing  that  happened  to  him  in 
his  life.  Once  one  gets  that  point  of  view  one 
ceases  to  be  jealous." 

"  But  it's  rather  amazing  that  you  should  have 
that  point  of  view,"  said  Miss  Gilderay. 

"Oh,  well,  explanations  are  long  and  tiresome 
things.  Now,  then,  here  is  the  thing  I  wanted  to 
show  you.  Hold  your  candles  up  very  high,  please. 
That's  right.  It's  really  an  astonishingly  modern 
idea,  considering  the  date  at  which  it  was  painted. 
You  see  that  figure — " 

He  never  finished  that  sentence.  The  floor  of 
the  chamber  seemed  to  sway  upwards.  They 
staggered  against  one  another.  Miss  Gilderay 
caught  at  a  sliding  surface  of  wall,  and  fell  to  the 
ground  grotesquely.  There  was  a  sharp  hissing 
sound,  followed  by  a  roar  like  a  cannonade,  that 
drowned  their  exclamations.  Then  came  a  heavy 
thud — thud,  as  of  some  titanic  hammer  beating 
down  soft  earth.  And  then  all  was  still.  Sir 
Felix  alone  still  held  his  lighted  candle  in  his 
hand.  The  other  candles  had  fallen  and  gone  out. 


BURDON'S  TOMB  77 

Sir  Felix  helped  Miss  Gilderay  to  her  feet  again, 
and  assured  himself  that  nobody  was  hurt.  They 
found  and  relit  their  candles. 

"But  what  on  earth  was  it?  What  terrible 
thing  has  happened  ?  "  cried  Miss  Gilderay. 

"  It  appeared  to  me,"  said  Mr  Agravine,  "  like 
a  shock  of  earthquake.  It  was  as  if  a  mountain 
had  come  down  on  us." 

"That  is  probably  what  has  happened.  If  you 
don't  mind  waiting  a  moment,  I'll  go  and  see 
what  I  can  find  out.  I'll  be  back  as  soon  as  I 
can." 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  he  returned.  They 
spoke  together  in  awed  tones,  speculating  on  the 
chances.  When  Sir  Felix  came  back  to  them,  he 
saw  white,  grave  faces,  but  no  sign  of  panic.  He 
hesitated.  He  had  practically  to  pronounce  a 
death-sentence  on  these  five  people  and  on  himself. 
And  then  Mrs  Langley  spoke. 

"  You  have  bad  news,  I  see,"  said  Mrs  Langley. 
"  But  we  have  expected  it.  The  entrance  to  the 
tomb  is  blocked  ?  " 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Sir  Felix.  "  It  is  bad  for  me, 
because  I  brought  you  back  here.  The  rest  oi 
your  party  are  safe  outside.  However,  we  must 
see  if  we  can  work  a  way  out.  I  have  a  pick  and 
a  couple  of  shovels  here." 

"Can't  we  do  anything  too?"  asked  Miss 
Gilderay. 

"  Nothing  at  the  moment,  I  think.  Make  your- 
selves as  comfortable  as  you  can  there." 


78  STORIES  IN  GREY 

He  pointed  to  the  chamber  which  had  been 
furnished  as  his  own  living-room. 

The  men  returned  to  the  entrance-hall,  stripped 
to  the  waist,  and  began  their  labour.  It  was 
absolutely  ineffective,  and  Sir  Felix  had  known 
from  the  first  that  it  would  be  ineffective.  But 
everything  had  to  be  tried.  The  sand  and  rubble 
fell  in  on  them,  and  they  could  make  no  way.  At 
last  they  gave  it  up. 

"  Will  you  call  the  ladies  who  were  with  you  ?  " 
said  Sir  Felix.  "  They  had  better  know." 


II 


THE  CONFESSION   OF  SIR   FELIX   BURDON   AND 
OF   MR  CASTLE 

DECK-CHAIRS  had  been  found  for  the  three 
women.  Agravine  and  Castle  sat  on  the  ground, 
their  backs  to  the  wall.  Sir  Felix  remained  stand- 
ing. There  were  plenty  of  candles  and  the  hall 
was  brightly  lit. 

"Tell  us  now,"  said  Mrs  Langley,  "what  the 
chances  are." 

"We  will  look  at  the  best  side  first,"  said  Sir 
Felix.  "  We  are  five  miles  from  Luxor,  and  Luxor 
is  on  the  rail.  The  tools  and  the  men  needed  for 
an  attempt  at  rescue  ought  to  be  available  and  to 
be  here  within  a  very  few  hours.  You're  with 
Thomas  Cook  &  Son,  and  they  won't  lose  any- 


BURDON'S  TOMB  79 

body  if  they  can  help  it,  and  they  are  pretty  potent 
people  in  Egypt.  The  natives  will  probably  be 
scared,  and  may  be  reluctant  to  come  to  work 
here.  But  baksheesh  and  the  hide-whip  are  good 
arguments.  I  think  we  will  take  it  for  granted 
that  everything  that  can  be  done  to  save  us  will 
most  certainly  be  done." 

"  I  see,"  said  Zoe  Averil,  "  that  you  think  it  will 
be  of  no  use." 

"  I  do,  but  I  may  be  wrong.  I  am  guided  by 
the  sounds  we  heard  and  by  my  knowledge  of  the 
conformation  of  the  ground  round  here.  I  believe 
that  we're  buried  too  deep  for  them  to  reach  us  in 
less  than  a  week's  work.  You  must  remember 
that  they  will  probably  find  it  difficult  at  first  even 
to  determine  the  point  at  which  they  shall  dig. 
I've  been  talking  it  over  with  Mr  Agravine,  and 
we  don't  think  that  the  air  here  will  last  more  than 
three  or  four  days.  So  now  you  see  what  I've  done." 

"  You  must  not  say  that  again,"  said  Mrs  Langley. 
"  Nobody  here  would  be  mad  enough  to  hold  you 
in  any  way  responsible.  Besides,  we've  talked  it 
over — Miss  Gilderay,  Zoe  Averil  and  myself — and 
we  also  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there 
was  very  little  hope.  As  it  happens,  we  three, 
more,  perhaps,  than  most  women,  can  take  this 
quietly  and  wait  for  death  without  making  any 
fuss." 

"  Yes,"  said  Zoe.  "  I  see  you're  looking  at  me, 
and  I  know  I've  been  crying.  But  that  was 
because  of  my  people,  and  not  for  myself  at  all. 


STORIES  IN  GREY 

So  far  as  I  myself  am  concerned — I'll  tell  you  a 
secret— I'm  glad." 

"  How  horrible  ! "  said  Agravine. 

And  then  they  began  to  discuss  together  the 
best  arrangements  that  could  be  made  for  the  three 
days  left  to  them.  On  one  point  they  were 
unanimous.  Those  days  were  to  be  made  as  easy 
as  possible.  The  candles  that  lit  them,  and  the 
flame  of  the  spirit  stove,  would  burn  up  air.  But 
the  tomb  was  to  remain  lit,  and  they  would  eat  and 
drink,  though  to-morrow  they  would  die.  And 
when  there  were  signs  that  the  last  moments  were 
approaching  they  would  not  prolong  the  period  of 
headache  and  malaise  and  nausea.  Sir  Felix  had 
a  charcoal  stove,  which  he  used  for  cooking  on  in 
the  open.  If  this  were  lit  all  would  soon  be  over. 

There  was  not  the  slightest  fear  of  any  suffering 
from  hunger  or  thirst.  The  chamber  which  Sir 
Felix  used  for  his  store-room  had  already  been 
rilled  for  the  season,  and  even  a  modified  luxury 
would  be  possible.  The  women  claimed  for 
themselves  the  slight  household  work  that  there 
would  be  to  do.  Sir  Felix  used  paper  plates  and 
dishes  that  would  not  need  to  be  washed,  and  when 
used  could  be  thrown,  with  all  other  refuse,  down 
the  deep  shaft  at  the  farther  end  of  the  tomb.  At 
night  the  men  would  camp  in  the  entrance-hall,  on 
deck-chairs.  The  women  would  fare  a  little  more 
easily,  dividing  such  bedding  as  there  was  among 
them  in  the  room  at  the  other  end  of  the  tomb. 
The  big  tank  had  been  filled,  and  there  was  bottled 


BURDON'S  TOMB  81 

water  for  drinking  besides.  The  only  thing  that 
seemed  likely  to  distress  them  was  the  waiting, 
the  actual  waiting  for  three  days  before  death  came. 

At  present  they  did  not  feel  this  at  all.  The 
earthquake  shock  had  thrown  them  into  something 
approaching  stupor.  Now  came  the  reaction. 
They  were  excited,  and  talked  eagerly.  There 
was  much  to  be  done.  The  floor  of  the  big  hall 
had  to  be  sprinkled  with  water,  that  the  dust 
might  not  bother  them.  A  table  and  seats  had  to 
be  improvised,  and  a  meal  prepared.  Young 
Castle,  under  direction,  opened  tins.  Miss  Gilderay 
busied  herself  at  the  spirit  stove.  Mr  Agravine 
and  Sir  Felix  were  occupied  with  a  little  rough 
carpentry.  There  was  much  activity  and  good 
temper.  There  was  even  laughter  at  minor 
mishaps.  It  was  an  astounding  and  fantastic 
picnic  in  the  very  face  of  death. 

Presently  Mrs  Langley  came  up  to  Sir  Felix. 

"Zoe — Miss  Averil — and  I  have  found  among 
your  stores  a  big  package  of  native  costumes — 
women's  costumes.  May  we  use  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  may.  But  please  ask  permission 
for  nothing  again.  All  that  is  here  is  common 
property.  It  belongs  to  all  of  us.  I  was  com- 
missioned by  a  lady  in  England  to  get  those  dresses 
for  her.  And  the  commission  bored  me  terribly. 
Now  I  feel  grateful  to  that  lady." 

An   hour   later   they   all   met   at  dinner.     The 
materials  of  the  repast  had  mostly  come  out  of  tins, 
but   Miss   Gilderay  had   been  very   clever.     The 
F 


82  STORIES  IN  GREY 

champagne  was  excellent,  though  two  of  the  men 
were  compelled  to  drink  from  tea-cups.  Mr 
Castle's  voice  began  to  be  heard  rather  frequently. 
There  was  a  faintly  triumphant  note  in  it,  and  it 
was  not  entirely  due  to  champagne.  The  pro- 
pinquity of  Mrs  Langley  affected  him. 

,At  the  end  of  the  repast  Mr  Castle  opened  a 
gold  cigarette-case  and  presented  it  to  Mrs  Langley. 
She  did  not  appear  to  see  it,  taking  no  notice  of  it. 
Selecting  a  cigarette  himself,  he  took  from  his 
pocket  a  gold  matchbox.  All  his  waistcoat-pocket 
furniture  was  of  pure  gold,  and  silver  was  nothing 
accounted. 

"  Wait  one  moment,  Mr  Castle,"  said  Sir  Felix. 
"  What  do  you  think  about  it,  Agravine  ?  It's  not 
as  if  we  could  open  the  windows  and  make  the 
whole  thing  fresh  again  to-morrow." 

"  By  Jove !  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Castle, 
and  returned  the  cigarette  to  his  case. 

"  Well,"  said  Agravine,  "  our  principle  was  that 
we  were  to  make  it  as  easy  for  ourselves  as  possible. 
This  hall  is  fairly  lofty  as  compared  with  the 
smaller  chambers.  Suppose  we  permit  each  person 
one  cigarette  after  dinner  to-night,  and  then  see 
what  it  is  like  to-morrow  morning  ?  I  imagine  we 
shan't  notice  it,  but,  if  we  do,  we  can  set  one  of 
the  smaller  chambers  of  the  tomb  apart  as  a 
smoking-room,  hanging  something  over  the 
entrance." 

"Good!"  said  Sir  Felix,  "I  think  you  are 
right."  He  produced  his  own  cigarette-case,  and 


BURDON'S  TOMB  83 

Mrs  Langley  and  Miss  Gilderay  both  took  cigar- 
ettes from  it.     Zoe  Averil  did  not  smoke. 

There  was  a  little  buzz  of  conversation,  and  then 
a  sudden  silence.  And  into  the  silence  broke  the 
clear,  silvery  voice  of  Zoe  Averil. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something,  Sir  Felix.  You 
look  rather  anxious,  and  I  don't  understand  anxiety 
when  the  end  is  so  certain.  What  is  it  you  are 
afraid  of  for  us  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  frankly.  I'm  afraid  of  reaction. 
I  have  got  no  words  to  say  how  splendid  I  think 
you  three  women  have  been.  You  all  seem 
without  fear.  But  we  have  many  hours  before  us 
yet.  There  will  be  little  or  nothing  to  do.  Here 
we  shall  be  in  prison  together  glaring  at  one 
another.  If  our  cheerfulness  broke  down,  if  we 
ceased  to  be  good-tempered,  if  we  got  to  long  for 
the  end — well,  it's  possible." 

"  Tell  us  your  story,  Sir  Felix,"  said  Mrs  Langley. 

"  My  story  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  story  of  yourself." 

"  I've  never  yet  told  it.  I'd  never  meant  to  tell 
it  at  all.  Yet,  now  that  I  come  to  think  about  it,  I 
don't  know  that  it  wouldn't  ease  my  mind  to  make 
a  confession  before  I  died.  You  will  none  of  you 
think  very  well  of  me  when  you've  heard  it,  and  so 
I  must  make  one  condition.  There  is  not  to  be 
one  word  of  comment." 

To  this  all  agreed. 

"  I  am  at  present  thirty-eight  years  ol  age. 
When  I  was  a  boy  of  fourteen,  early  one  summer 


84  STORIES  IN  GREY 

morning  I  wrecked  the  whole  of  my  life.  It  is 
in  consequence  of  what  I  did,  or  failed  to  do,  then 
that  I  succeeded  to  the  baronetcy — if  that  is  worth 
anything — and  became  a  rich  man,  and  have  never 
since  had  one  moment  of  complete  happiness. 
What  I've  got  to  tell  you  is  that  I  was  a  coward. 
Even  now,  in  similar  circumstances,  I  think  I 
might  be  a  coward  again.  There  are  people 
who  have  no  fear.  There  are  people  who  are 
brave  enough  for  the  ordinary  things  of  life,  but 
have  one  special  fear  which  overmasters  them. 
I  believe  there  are  many  such,  and  I  was  one  of 
them.  With  some  men  the  overmastering  horror 
is  connected  with  fire.  They  live  in  dread  of  it. 
They  never  go  to  an  hotel  or  a  house  for  the  first 
time  without  looking  from  their  windows  to  find 
what  they  would  do  in  case  of  fire.  The  thing 
haunts  them.  My  case  was  different.  I  was 
supposed  to  be  a  particularly  courageous  and 
high-spirited  boy,  but  I  also  was  haunted — by  the 
dread  of  drowning.  I  was  afraid  of  the  water.  As  a 
child,  when  I  first  saw  the  sea  I  screamed  with  terror. 
As  I  got  older  and  went  to  school  I  had  to  get  over 
this  to  some  extent.  I  managed,  with  the  greatest 
agony  to  myself  and  with  the  strictest  concealment 
of  my  real  feelings,  to  learn  to  swim.  In  the 
summer  holidays  I  bathed  every  morning  with  my 
elder  brother  in  the  river  before  breakfast.  I  used 
to  pretend  that  I  loved  it.  And  yet  every  day  it 
was  all  I  could  do  to  get  myself  to  go  in.  There, 
can't  you  guess  the  rest  of  it  ?  No,  don't  speak." 


BURDON'S  TOMB  85 

He  took  a  sip  of  champagne,  and  continued  his 
story. 

On  the  morning  in  question  Adrian,  his  elder 
brother,  who  was  an  expert  swimmer,  had  remained 
long  in  the  water  after  Felix  had  left  it.  Suddenly 
Adrian  was  attacked  by  cramp  and  cried  for  help. 

"  I  was  unable  to  move,"  said  Sir  Felix.  "  I 
stood  there  on  the  bank  half-dressed,  looking  at 
him,  and  I  was  actually  unable  to  move.  I  could 
not  make  myself  do  it.  I  pictured  him  dragging 
me  down  into  the  green  water.  I  also  began 
to  call  loudly  for  help.  I  told  myself  that  when 
he  was  insensible,  and  it  would  be  safe  for  me 
to  tackle  him,  I  would  go  in  and  rescue,  but  it 
was  not  till  I  heard  steps  and  became  afraid  of 
being  found  on  the  bank  that  I  managed  to  fall 
into  the  water.  I  never  reached  my  brother. 
Fear  had  taken  all  the  power  from  my  muscles. 
I  could  not  swim  at  all.  I  went  down  at  once. 
When  we  were  taken  out  by  the  men  who  came 
in  answer  to  my  call,  he  was  dead  and  I  was 
insensible.  I  recovered,  told  a  lying  story,  and  let 
people  praise  my  heroism.  Can  you  wonder  that 
the  recollection  of  that  morning  has  haunted  me 
all  my  life  ?  I,  who  hate  cowardice  and  lies  and 
selfish  brutality,  have  to  look  upon  myself  as  a 
coward,  a  liar,  and  a  murderer.  Since  then  I  have 
done  everything  I  could,  short  of  actual  suicide, 
to  end  it.  In  South  Africa  the  Boer  bullets  and 
the  enteric  took  better  men  and  left  me  free. 
Here  in  Egypt  I  found  a  fascination.  Here  also 


86  STORIES  IN  GREY 

lived  people  who  all  their  lives  through  had  looked 
forward  to  their  death.  Excavation,  too,  has  its 
risks,  or  can  be  made  to  have  them.  I  have  shirked 
none  of  them.  I  have  even  invented  them.  And 
all  the  time  I  have  had  to  put  a  good  face  on 
things  before  the  world.  I  dared  not  let  people 
know  what  I  really  was.  I  joined  in  sports,  I 
laughed  at  jokes,  I  pretended  to  be  interested  in 
all  manner  of  things.  It  is  a  relief  unspeakable  to 
me  that  from  this  moment,  for  the  few  hours  that 
will  elapse  before  I  die,  I  need  pretend  no  longer. 
I  have  shown  myself  as  I  am." 

There  was  complete  silence  when  he  finished 
speaking.  It  had  been  agreed  that  there  was 
to  be  no  word  of  comment.  Then  openly,  across 
the  table,  Mrs  Langley  stretched  out  her  hand  to 
him,  and  he  held  it  for  a  moment.  Miss  Gilderay, 
rising,  with  Zoe  Averil  close  to  her,  began  to 
clear  away  things.  Mr  Agravine,  helping  them, 
sought  and  found  an  occasion  to  say  something 
absolutely  commonplace. 

Suddenly  Mr  Castle  brought  his  hand  down  on 
the  table. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said.  "  If  you  don't  mind, 
I  mean.  If  I  don't  do  it  now,  I  never  shall." 

"  What  is  it,  Mr  Castle  ?  "  asked  Mr  Agravine. 

"  My  name's  not  Castle,  but  that's  no  matter. 
It's  the  only  name  you'll  ever  know  me  by.  I've 
got  a  story  to  tell — a  true  story.  The  night's 
young,  and  in  any  case  we  shall  be  getting  a  long 
sleep  soon." 


BURDON'S  TOMB  87 

"Don't  get  excited  about  it,  Mr  Castle,"  said 
Mrs  Langley,  quietly.  "  We  are  quite  willing  to 
hear  you." 

Those  who  had  risen  from  their  places  sat  down 
again,  and  the  young  man  began. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  blame  myself  alone  for 
what  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  but  I  don't.  I  blame 
my  father  more  than  myself.  He's  a  solicitor 
in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  I  dare  say  you'd  know 
the  name  if  I  gave  it.  I  have  been  on  bad  terms 
with  him  all  my  life.  All  my  life  he  has  kept  me 
short  of  liberty  and  short  of  money.  He  forced 
me  to  take,  or  to  pretend  to  take,  his  views  in 
religion  and  politics  and  everything.  It  was  only 
by  hypocrisy  that  I  could  make  life  with  him 
tolerable.  He  insisted  upon  it  that  I  should  follow 
his  profession,  although  he  knew  that  I  hated  it. 
I  don't  care  now  whether  I'm  laughed  at  or  not, 
and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  wanted  to  be.  I  wanted 
to  be  an  actor.  He  would  not  hear  of  that,  of 
course.  He'd  given  me  a  good  education,  public 
school  and  Oxford,  and  I  was  to  go  into  his  office. 
I  hated  it,  but  I  did  what  I  was  told.  I  went 
through  my  articles,  I  passed  all  necessary  exam- 
inations. I  became  admitted  as  a  solicitor,  and 
then,  for  years,  I  did  the  work  of  managing  clerk 
for  him  for  about  half  a  managing  clerk's  salary. 
At  twenty-seven  I  had  very  little  more  freedom 
than  I  had  at  seventeen.  I  was  not  allowed  a 
latch-key.  I  had  to  give  an  account  of  everything 
that  I  did  and  almost  everything  that  I  thought. 


88  STORIES  IN  GREY 

It  would  have  been  just  if  I  had  been  taken  inl 
partnership,  but  my  father  would  not  hear  of  that. 
I  was  to  inherit  the  business  when  he  died,  and 
until  then  I  might  wait.  So  it  went  on.  Month 
after  month  of  formal  and  uninteresting  routine. 
Month  after  month  of  snubs  and  checks.  If  ever 
a  man  hated  his  father,  I  hated  mine.  Well,  he'd 
screwed  down  the  safety-valve,  and  after  that  it 
was  his  own  look-out.  What  happened  was 
inevitable." 

He  paused  a  moment,  irresolute. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Mrs  Langley. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  shirk  it.  One  day  last 
July  my  father  handed  me  the  firm's  cheque  for 
nine  hundred  pounds.  I  was  to  cash  it  and  go 
on  to  the  office  of  another  solicitor  to  complete 
a  purchase  on  behalf  of  a  client.  It  was  the  kind 
of  thing  I  had  often  done  before.  As  you  know, 
of  course,  payment  is  generally  made  in  Bank  of 
England  notes.  Until  the  moment  when  I  had 
that  cheque  in  my  hands  I  had  formed  no  plan  at 
all.  I  had  had  a  specially  exasperating  week  with 
my  old  father,  and  was  determined  that  something 
would  have  to  be  done.  As  I  slipped  that  cheque 
into  my  pocket  I  decided  what  it  should  be.  I 
got  cash  for  the  cheque,  taking  the  greater  part 
of  it  in  small  notes  and  twenty  pounds  in  gold. 
I  was  very  well  known  at  the  bank.  If  I  had 
asked  for  the  whole  of  it  in  gold  I  doubt  if  it  would 
have  aroused  any  suspicion.  Then  I  got  into 
a  cab  and  drove  round  to  one  or  two  shops  and 


BURDON'S  TOMB  89 

bought  a  dressing-case  and  some  other  things. 
The  change  had  begun  already.  My  father  did 
not  permit  me  to  take  cabs  when  a  'bus  would 
serve,  or  a  'bus  when  it  was  an  easy  walk, 
though  he  never  went  anywhere  except  in  a  cab 
himself.  I  knew  that  the  last  place  in  which  they 
would  look  for  me  would  be  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  so  I  went  to  a  small 
hotel  in  Holborn.  For  two  or  three  days  I  lay 
low  and  watched  the  papers  carefully  morning 
and  evening,  expecting  to  find  some  account  of 
my  disappearance.  There  was  never  a  word  about 
it,  and  then  I  knew  that  I  was  quite  safe.  My 
father  had  not  taken  the  view  that  I  had  been 
abducted  by  thieves,  but  that  I  myself  was  a  thief. 
To  save  his  name  and  the  name  of  his  firm  he 
would  be  quite  willing  to  pay  that  nine  hundred 
out  of  his  own  pocket.  I  laughed  at  the  thought 
of  that.  It  occurred  to  me,  however,  that  he  would 
probably  have  put  private  detectives  on  to  me, 
and  for  some  weeks  I  was  careful,  going  out  only 
at  night  in  closed  cabs.  It  was  dull,  because  I 
knew  nobody.  I  still  watched  the  papers,  and 
still  found  no  allusion  to  myself.  I  had  expected 
a  veiled  notice  in  the  agony  column  of  the  Times, 
but  there  was  nothing.  The  old  man  had  evidently 
determined  to  cut  me  off  altogether.  At  last,  one 
night,  more  because  I  was  sick  of  the  solitude  than 
because  I  thought  it  was  safe,  I  crossed  over  to 
Calais  by  the  night  boat.  I  remained  in  Paris 
for  a  few  weeks,  and  then  started  off  on  a  kind 


^  STORIES  IN  GREY 

of  walking  tour.  I  made  a  good  many  acquaintances 
and  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  myself.  I  never  had 
the  slightest  qualm  of  conscience,  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  have  any  now.  I  said  to  myself  that 
I  had  not  stolen  the  nine  hundred  pounds,  I  had 
merely  drawn  my  back  pay.  I  got  plenty  of 
amusement,  and  incidentally  I  improved  my 
French.  On  my  return  to  Paris  I  happened  to  be 
in  Cook's  office  one  day  and  heard  a  man  inquiring 
about  Egypt.  It  was  now  November.  My  walking 
tour  had  cost  me  very  little,  and  I  still  had  plenty 
of  money  left.  That  is  how  I  came  here.  There 
is  my  story,  and  you  can  think  what  you  like." 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  us,"  said  Mrs  Langley. 
"  It  is  better  to  make  no  other  comment." 

"  I  notice,"  said  Mr  Castle,  bitterly,  "  that  you 
do  not  give  me  your  hand." 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Mrs  Langley. 

"  You  can  treat  me  as  a  leper  if  you  like." 

"  Nor  do  I  do  that." 

Miss  Gilderay  broke  in  hastily.  "But  what 
did  you  mean  to  do  when  the  money  was  all 
gone  ?  " 

"  I  was  willing  to  do  anything,  except  to  arise 
and  go  to  my  father.  If  I  had  found  an  oppor- 
tunity I  should  have  taken  it.  If  I  had  found 
none  I  should  probably  have  committed  suicide. 
Burdon's  tomb  has  spared  me  my  pains." 

And  from  that  time  onward  Mr  Castle  began  to 
give  trouble. 


BURDON'S  TOMB  91 


III 


THE   CONFESSION   OF   MISS   GILDERAY  AND  OF 
MRS   LANGLEY 

THE  night  seemed  interminable.  Sir  Felix 
Burdon,  an  old  campaigner,  slept  well  enough  in 
his  deck-chair,  but  all  the  others  were  restless. 
In  the  passage  one  candle  burned.  Its  flame, 
absolutely  motionless  in  the  still  and  yellow  air, 
was  like  a  piece  of  burnished  metal.  At  the 
farther  end  of  the  tomb,  in  the  chambers  where 
the  women  slept,  low  voices  could  be  heard  at 
intervals  all  through  the  first  hours  of  night. 

At  five  in  the  morning  all  was  still.  Mr 
Agravine,  who  had  tried  a  thousand  positions, 
had  found  one  in  which  he  was  able  to  sleep. 
Castle,  who  had  stretched  himself  at  full  length 
on  the  sandy  floor,  lay  with  his  face  on  one  arm, 
breathing  heavily. 

Suddenly  Castle  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  I  want  to  get  out  of  this,"  he  shouted  wildly. 
"  I'm  not  going  to  die  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  Let 
me  out.  I've  got  money  to  spend,  I  tell  you.  I 
must  get  out." 

Sir  Felix  Burdon,  awakened  by  the  noise,  sprang 
to  his  feet.  He  was  rather  angry. 

"  Hold  your  row,"  he  said.  "  D'you  want  to 
wake  everybody?  If  you  start  that  screaming 
again,  I'll  gag  you." 


92  STORIES  IN  GREY 

Castle  collapsed.  He  sat  on  the  floor,  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  rocking  to  and  fro.  "  Give  me 
a  drink  and  I'll  keep  quiet,"  he  said.  "  If  I  can't 
get  out,  give  me  a  drink." 

"  Oh,  go  and  get  what  you  want,"  said  Sir  Felix, 
contemptuously. 

Agravine,  who  had  lighted  his  candle,  watched 
the  scene  with  grave  and  dispassionate  eyes. 

Castle  went  off  to  the  stores.  They  could  hear 
him  moving  about  there.  Presently  he  returned 
with  a  cup  and  a  bottle  of  whisky.  His  exceed- 
ingly elaborate  knife  contained  a  corkscrew 
amongst  other  implements,  and  he  drew  the 
cork. 

"  Why  don't  you  all  join  me  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Best 
thing  you  can  do." 

The  other  men  refused,  as  briefly  as  possible. 
Castle  poured  the  whisky  into  the  cup  and  began 
sipping  it. 

"  This  is  doing  me  good,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
suffering  from  chill.  That  is  what  it  was.  Might 
happen  to  anybody.  This  is  the  finest  thing  on 
earth,  taken  medicinally." 

Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  him.  For  half 
an  hour  he  went  on  sipping  steadily,  then  he  drove 
the  cork  into  the  bottle  with  one  blow  of  his  fist, 
and  flung  himself  at  full  length  on  the  sand  again. 
A  moment  later  he  was  snoring.  Sir  Felix  and 
Mr  Agravine  were  both  awake  now.  They  glanced 
at  him  and  their  eyes  met. 

"Yes,"  said  Agravine.    "  I'm  afraid  he's  a  skunk. 


BURDON'S  TOMB  93 

He  was  all  right  in  the  hotel  and  all  right  on  the 
boat.  But  this  experience  has  tried  him  a  little 
too  high.  What  ought  we  to  do  ?  " 

Sir  Felix  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  don't  see 
that  we  can  do  anything.  It's  only  a  short  time 
now,  anyhow.  I  don't  know  if  it's  my  fancy,  but 
the  air  here  seems  to  me  to  be  worse  and  closer 
already.  If  he  wants  to  die  like  a  hog,  he  must. 
Of  course,  if  he  gets  noisy,  we  shall  have  to  take 
some  measures,  but  as  long  as  the  stuff  makes  him 
sleep — well,  he's  best  asleep." 

And  then  for  a  while  they  dozed  fitfully.  At 
seven  o'clock  they  could  hear  sounds  of  move- 
ment at  the  farther  end  of  the  tomb,  and  then  Zoe 
Averil  appeared  at  the  entrance  of  the  hall.  She 
wore  a  long  native  robe  of  dark  blue. 

"  We're  making  some  tea,"  she  said.  "  Shall  I 
bring  you  some  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Sir 
Felix.  "  I  hope  you've  slept." 

"  I  slept  very  well  indeed.  I  had  a  little  room 
all  by  myself.  But  I  think  the  other  two  did  not 
sleep  so  well.  Miss  Gilderay  looks  very  tired  and 
worn  out." 

Miss  Gilderay  and  Mrs  Langley  brought  in  the 
tea,  but  waited  only  for  a  moment  and  then  went 
back  to  their  own  quarters.  Hot  tea,  a  wash  in 
cold  water,  and  a  change  of  clothing  refreshed  the 
two  men.  They  sat  up  and  talked  in  low  voices, 
while  Castle  still  lay  and  snored. 

"  An  experience  like  this,"  said  Agravine, "  makes 


94  STORIES  IN  GREY 

one  realize  what  an  absolutely  fantastic  and  foolish 
thing  property  is.  One  begins  to  wonder  why 
one  ever  attached  any  importance  to  it.  As  you 
know,  I  simply  gave  up  my  life  to  the  acquisition 
of  one  form  ol  property  —  beautiful  things  — 
pictures.  How  absolutely  absurd  !  Nothing  of  it 
is  any  good  to  me  now,  and  I  cannot  take  it  along 
with  me.  Here  in  this  small,  imprisoned  society 
for  a  few  hours  we  lose  the  sense  of  property 
altogether.  I  am  wearing  one  of  your  shirts,  Sir 
Felix.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  matter  in  the 
least  whose  shirt  it  is.  I  really  hardly  thanked 
you.  Community  of  goods  becomes  quite  easy 
when  one  knows  that  one  will  soon  be  dead. 
And,"  he  added  sardonically,  "  becomes  still  easier 
when  one  man  in  the  society  finds  all  the  goods, 
and  the  rest  simply  do  the  communing." 

Sir  Felix  laughed.  He  pointed  with  his  foot 
to  the  prostrate  Castle.  "Shall  we  wake  the 
beggar,"  he  said,  "  and  let  him  clean  himself  up  a 
bit?" 

"  No,"  said  Agravine.  "  The  longer  he  sleeps, 
the  better  his  nerves  will  be  when  he  wakes." 

An  hour  later  Castle  awoke  of  his  own  accord. 
He  certainly  did  seem  very  much  better.  He  was 
ashamed  of  himself  and  apologetic. 

"Afraid  I  kicked  up  rather  a  row  last  night. 
Sorry.  I  suppose  my  nerves  gave  way.  I  shall 
be  all  right  now  that  I  have  had  a  sleep." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Sir  Felix,  kindly.  "  You'll  be 
all  right.  You've  missed  some  very  good  tea  by 


BURDON'S  TOMB  95 

your   slumbers.      I   dare  say  they'll  make   some 
more  for  you." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Castle.  "  I  don't  want  to  trouble 
them.  I'll  wait  till  they  join  us." 

Meanwhile  he  proceeded  with  his  toilet,  and 
accomplished  the  rather  difficult  task  of  cutting 
himself  with  a  safety  razor.  Of  his  own  accord  he 
washed  the  cups  which  had  been  used,  and  took 
them  and  the  whisky  bottle  back  to  the  store- 
room. There  he  found  Zoe  Averil  and  Miss 
Gilderay,  and  remained  talking  with  them  for  a 
little  time.  Presently  the  whole  party  gathered 
together  again  round  the  trestle-table  in  the 
entrance-hall  of  the  tomb. 

The  table  was  laid  just  as  neatly  and  carefully 
as  if  it  had  really  mattered.  The  women  had  seen 
to  that.  Zoe  Averil  still  wore  the  native  robe,  the 
other  two  were  in  their  ordinary  clothes. 

Castle  was  quite  good-humoured  at  lunch  and 
very  talkative ;  it  was  fairly  obvious  that  he  was 
drinking  too  much.  Suddenly  Miss  Gilderay,  who 
sat  next  to  him,  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  used  to 
do  that,  too." 

"  Do  what  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you."  She  raised  her  voice  and 
addressed  the  others.  "  I  was  just  saying  to  Mr 
Castle  that  I,  too,  have  a  confession  which  I  might 
make.  It  does  not  seem  to  be  fair  that  you,  Sir 
Felix,  and  you,  Mr  Castle,  should  tell  the  worst  of 
yourselves,  and  that  I  should  still  let  you  believe 
the  best  of  me," 


96  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  suppose,"  said  Sir  Felix, 
"  that  there's  the  slightest  compulsion  upon  you  to 
say  even  one  word.  You  mustn't  feel  bound  to 
disclose  anything." 

"  Down  here,  so  near  the  end,  disclosure  is  really 
very  easy.  You  see,  it  does  not  matter  any  more. 
I  shall  not  be  mixing  with  other  people.  I  have 
not  got  to  pretend  that  I  am  almost  without  fault. 
The  only  thing  I  am  afraid  of  is  that  you  will 
laugh  at  me,  or  want  to  laugh  at  me.  I've  got  no 
illusions  about  myself.  I  know  that  I  am  not 
pretty  and  never  have  been  pretty.  I  am  elderly, 
and  it  must  seem  absurd  for  me  to  speak  of 
romance  and  love." 

"  I  feel  sure,"  said  Mr  Agravine,  "  that  we  shall 
not  want  to  laugh  at  you.  No  one  ever  wants  to 
laugh  at  anything  which  is  quite  genuine." 

"  Hear,  hear,"  said  Castle,  rapping  noisily  on  the 
table. 

Miss  Gilderay  moistened  her  lips  with  the  tip  of 
her  tongue,  looked  at  them  unflinchingly,  and 
began  to  speak. 

"  My  father  was  the  vicar  ot  a  London  church 
which  was  in  its  way  rather  celebrated.  The 
music  was  very  good.  The  ritual  was  very  ornate, 
and  the  sermons  were  very  short.  My  father  was 
a  good  musician  and  a  very  fair  man  of  the  world. 
He  understood  business  thoroughly,  and  the  greater 
part  of  his  income  was  derived  from  careful  specu- 
lations. There  was  a  stockbroker  in  his  congrega- 
tion, an  old  man  called  Baldwin,  who  thought  very 


BURDON'S  TOMB  97 

highly  of  my  father — as,  indeed,  most  people  did 
— and  he  used  to  advise  him.  My  father  was  very 
careful  that  the  world  in  general  should  know 
nothing  of  these  business  transactions,  but  to  me 
he  always  defended  them.  He  said  that  there 
were  many  calls  upon  his  charity,  and  that  one 
could  only  give  in  proportion  to  one's  income. 
If  he  made  money  in  Steel  Commons,  then  he  had 
the  more  to  give  away.  He  reminded  me  that 
some  of  the  apostles  themselves  got  their  living 
as  fishermen.  It  did  not  seem  to  me  the  same 
thing  at  all,  but  I  did  not  criticize  him.  I  was  too 
fond  of  him  to  be  critical. 

"  I  used  to  help  my  father  a  good  deal,  doing 
all  his  secretarial  work  for  him.  I  would  type  out 
his  sermon  and  his  instructions  to  his  broker  all  in 
the  same  morning. 

"  The  choir  of  the  church  was  for  the  most  part 
paid,  and  paid  by  my  father  out  of  his  own  pocket. 
He  said  it  was  almost  impossible  to  get  good  music 
except  from  professionals.  But  one  day  he  came 
to  me  in  a  state  of  great  delight.  He  had  found  a 
new  and  admirable  singer,  a  tenor,  who  was  willing 
to  give  his  services  for  nothing.  '  He's  a  gentle- 
man,' said  my  father,  and  paused.  'Or  almost,' 
he  added.  I  laughed,  and  told  him  that  I  knew 
that  kind. 

"When  I  saw  the  new  tenor — Henderson  his 
name  was — I  still  felt  that  I  knew  that  kind.  He 
had  good  looks  of  rather  a  common  description. 
His  eyes  were  too  small,  his  face  too  fat.  He 

was  slightly  under  the  average  height,  I  should 
G 


98  STORIES  IN  GREY 

say.     I  was  quite  prepared  to  take  no  interest 
him  whatever. 

"And  then  I  heard  him  sing,  and  forgot  the 
man  in  the  voice.  He  had  a  real  tenor,  and  his 
singing  was  perfectly  true.  Somehow  it  was 
impossible  to  hear  it  without  believing  that  behind 
that  voice  there  was  a  beautiful  and  noble  tem- 
perament. As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  know  now  that 
this  is  one  of  the  commonest  of  illusions.  Music 
has  its  special  beauty,  which  is  quite  isolated.  It 
does  not  imply  any  other  beauty  of  any  kind. 

"  But  that  was  ten  years  ago.  Every  Sunday  I 
heard  that  man  sing.  I  do  not  think  now  that  I 
fell  in  love  with  the  man,  but  I  fell  in  love  with 
the  voice,  and  began  to  make  inquiries  about  him, 
and  found  nothing  very  romantic.  He  was  em- 
ployed in  an  insurance  office  and  was  doing  very 
well.  He  was  unmarried  and  lived  with  his  two 
sisters.  One  Sunday  night  he  had  been  taking 
the  solo  part  in  the  anthem,  and  I  suppose  that  I 
was  more  than  usually  impressed.  At  any  rate, 
when  I  got  home  I  wrote  a  foolish  letter  and  sent 
it  to  him. 

"It  was  my  belief  that  I  had  not  committed 
myself  in  any  way.  I  had  given  no  address  and 
put  no  signature.  In  case  my  hand-writing  should 
be  recognized  I  had  typed  the  letter. 

"  Some  weeks  later  my  father  thought  he  should 
take  some  notice  of  this  Mr  Henderson,  and  told 
me  to  ask  him  to  dinner.  He  came, and  every  minute 
I  liked  him  less  and  less.  In  the  drawing-room 
afterwards  he  got  a  chance  to  speak  with  me  apart. 


BURDON'S  TOMB  99 

"  *  You  do  all  your  fathers  typing  for  him,  don't 
you  ? '  he  said. 

"  I  assented.  I  had  typed  lists  and  notices  for  the 
use  of  the  choir,  which,  of  course,  he  would  have  seen. 

"'You  ought  to  have  a  new  letter  "f"  put  on 
that  machine,'  he  said.  *  The  top  of  it's  got  broken 
off.  I  notice  these  little  things.  I  have  noticed 
that  broken  "  f "  in  everything  that  you  have  typed.' 

"  I  did  not  lose  my  head.  I  said  it  was  very 
likely,  that  the  machine  was  always  open,  and 
that  it  was  my  belief  that  one  of  the  housemaids 
used  it  to  type  her  love-letters  on.  I  said  that  I 
would  have  the  T  key  put  right,  but  that  I  could 
not  make  out  how  on  earth  he  came  to  have 
noticed  it.  This  was  as  good  as  I  could  do,  but 
it  did  not  deceive  him,  and  I  saw  that  it  had  not 
deceived  him.  Before  the  evening  was  over  I 
hated  him  far  more  than  I  had  ever  loved  him. 

"I  spent  a  sleepless  night  in  an  agony  of 
humiliation,  and  next  day  I  was  tortured  with 
neuralgia.  That  was  the  beginning  of  it.  To 
relieve  the  pain  of  the  neuralgia,  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  drank  wine." 

"  Look  here,  Miss  Gilderay,"  said  Sir  Felix,  "  we 
quite  understand.  You  need  not  tell  us  the  rest  of  it." 

Miss  Gilderay  smiled  mournfully.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  you  the  whole  story.  It  is  quite 
loathsome.  I  do  not  think  I  could  do  it.  It  is 
the  story  of  endless  effort  and  endless  failure. 
The  thing  became  public  at  last,  and  my  father 
had  to  leave  that  parish.  He  died  a  few  months 
afterwards,  and  I  suppose  his  death  saved  me. 


ioo  STORIES  IN  GREY 

At  any  rate,  I  have  been  able  to  do  the  most 
difficult  thing  of  all.  I  am  not  what  I  once  was, 
neither  am  I  an  abstainer.  I  drank  a  glass  of 
wine  at  lunch  just  now.  I  shall  drink  another  at 
dinner.  But  don't  imagine  that  I  am  proud  of  my 
victory  over  myself.  I  could  not  be  that,  knowing 
as  I  do  at  what  cost  it  was  bought.  Nor  can  it  ever 
blot  out  of  my  mind  the  shame  of  so  much  previous 
defeat.  I  have  spoken  of  it  with  a  reason,  though." 

She  looked  full  at  Mr  Castle.  "All  right,  all 
right,"  he  said  impatiently.  "All  these  things 
have  a  physiological  explanation." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr  Agravine.  "  And  what  explains 
the  physiology  ?  " 

Mr  Castle  glared  and  said  nothing.  Zoe  Averil 
changed  her  place  and  nowsat  next  toMissGilderay. 

"  It  always  seemed  to  me  a  pity,"  Mr  Agravine 
continued,  "  that  any  convention  which  is  entirely 
false  should  be  generally  accepted.  That  is  the 
case  of  the  convention  that  divides  people  into 
saints  and  sinners.  There  are  no  saints,  and  in  a 
sense  there  are  no  sinners.  We  are  human  beings, 
defective,  but  with  some  goodness.  If  we  could 
only  get  that  to  be  recognized,  if  that  were  the 
general  opinion  of  society,  society  would  be  all  the 
better  for  it." 

"  I've  often  thought,"  Sir  Felix  said,  "  that  the 
case  is  very  hard  of  a  man  who  goes  to  prison 
once.  What  happens  to  him  when  he  comes  out  ? 
By  most  people  he  is  not  forgiven,  and  in  the 
other  cases  forgiveness  is  patronage.  Both  are  as 
bad  as  can  be.  And  yet  I  don't  see  what  other 


BURDON'S  TOMB  101 

line  is  to  be  taken.     To  treat  crime  solely  as  dis- 
ease is  more  amiable  than  practical." 

"  I  have  no  panacea,"  said  Mr  Agravine.  "  I  can't 
make  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth.  But  in  my 
time  I  have  often  wished  I  could  make  a  new  earth." 

"The  fact  of  the  case  is,"  said  Mrs  Langley, 
"  that  one  can't  make  any  general  rules  at  all.  We 
can  only  deal  with  special  cases  as  they  arrive  as 
intelligently  and  as  humanely  as  possible." 

"  I  see,"  said  Mr  Castle,  "  that  you  take  a  very 
superior  standpoint,  Mrs  Langley.  You  pose  as  a 
righteous  person,  who  is  to  do  her  best  for  people 
like — well,  like  Miss  Gilderay  and  myself." 

"  I  do  not  pose  at  all,"  said  Mrs  Langley.  "  I 
was  not  thinking  of  how  I  should  judge,  but  of 
how  I  should  wish  to  be  judged.  If  you  want  to 
know,  I  have  already  made  my  confession.  Miss 
Gilderay  has  been  a  friend  of  mine  for  three  years 
past.  Last  night  I  told  her  something  that  I  had 
never  told  her  or  anybody  else  before.  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  you  any  more  now,  except  that  some 
time  after  my  marriage  I  went  through  a  week  of 
madness.  My  punishment  has  been  that  I  have 
had  to  be  a  coward,  that  I  have  had  to  join  in  the 
general  combination  against  more  than  one  woman, 
though  I  knew  that  they  were  little  if  at  all  more 
guilty  than  myself.  You  have  made  me  face  this 
shame  before  you  men.  Now  are  you  content  ?  " 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  had  intended 
nothing  of  the  kind." 

He  moved  away  from  the  table,  and  sat  in  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  hall  with  his  back  to  the 


102  STORIES  IN  GREY 

others.  Presently  he  took  a  cigarette  from  his 
case  and  lit  it. 

"  I  say,"  said  Sir  Felix.  "  Just  put  that  down, 
will  you,  and  stick  your  heel  on  it." 

Mr  Castle  scowled,  but  did  as  he  was  told.  The 
others  rose  and  began  to  clear  away  the  things  on 
the  table. 

IV 

THE  CONFESSION  OF  MR  AGRAVINE  AND  THE 
STORY  OF  MISS  AVERIL :  AND  SO  TO  A 
CONCLUSION 

THE  three  women  spent  most  of  the  afternoon 
in  their  own  quarters.  In  the  hall  Mr  Agravine, 
with  his  pocket-knife  in  his  hands,  sat  and  carved 
a  peach  stone ;  he  was  astonishingly  clever  at 
work  of  that  kind.  Sir  Felix  wrote  with  the  writ- 
ing-block on  his  knee.  If,  as  seemed  likely,  their 
bodies  were  ultimately  dug  out,  he  wished  to  leave 
behind  him  some  instructions  witn  reference  to 
his  property,  and  also  with  reference  to  the  ex- 
cavation work  which  he  had  in  hand.  Castle  did 
nothing  but  sit  in  sulky  silence. 

At  five  o'clock  Sir  Felix  looked  at  his  watch. 
"  Agravine,"  he  said,  "  we've  been  shut  up  now  for 
twenty-six  hours.  What  d'you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  another  twenty -two  hours  will  see  the 
end  of  it.  Before  that  time  we  shall  have  to  light 
the  charcoal  stove  and  finish  quickly.  Have  you 
got  it  ready  ? " 

"  Not  yet.  Come  along  to  the  store-room,  and 
I'll  show  you  how  the  thing  works." 


BURDON'S  TOMB  103 

Castle  followed  the  two  men  and  stood  watch- 
ing them,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Once  or  twice 
he  asked  a  brief  question.  The  visit  to  the  store- 
room gave  him  an  opportunity  to  resume  posses- 
sion of  the  whisky  bottle.  Before  dinner-time  he 
had  finished  it.  The  other  two  men  remonstrated 
with  him,  but  he  said  gloomily  that  a  man  con- 
demned to  death  had  the  right  to  eat  and  drink 
what  he  liked.  He  refused  to  join  the  others  at 
dinner. 

In  truth  dinner  had  become  a  farce.  Confine- 
ment and  oppressive  air  had  destroyed  the  appetite 
of  all  of  them.  Even  their  conversation  was  at 
first  quite  without  animation.  But  presently  Miss 
Gilderay  said : 

"  Do  you  know  what  Zoe  Averil  has  been  telling 
us  this  afternoon  ?  She  says  that  she  hears  some- 
body coming." 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,"  said  Zoe  Averil.  "I'm 
quite  sure." 

Sir  Felix  looked  across  at  Mr  Agravine.  Were 
they  all  of  them  going  mad,  then  ? 

"  I  don't  see  the  possibility  of  it,"  said  Sir  Felix. 

Suddenly  from  his  corner  Mr  Castle  burst  into 
a  loud  laugh.  "What  else  did  you  expect?"  he 
shouted.  "  It  is  the  high  priest  come  back  to  see 
the  Christians  who  have  defiled  his  tomb,  and  to 
watch  their  last  agony." 

"  1  think,"  said  Mr  Agravine,  "  that  you  would 
do  better  to  be  quiet,  Mr  Castle." 

Castle  growled  that  in  future  he  would  do  what 
he  liked. 


104  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"  The  question  rather  is,"  said  Miss  Gilderay, 
"if  we  want  anybody  to  come — I  mean,  if  we 
want  to  be  rescued.  I  don't  think  I  do  particu- 
larly. Life  does  not  hold  very  much  for  a  plain 
and  unmarried  woman  of  my  age,  and  yet — " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs  Langley,  "and  yet.  I  know 
what  you  mean.  Instinct  is  too  strong  for  us. 
We  thought  we  were  sick  of  the  world,  but  we 
would  both  go  back  to  it  if  we  could." 

"  I  also,"  said  Sir  Felix. 

"  Not  me,"  shouted  Castle.  "  Not  me.  I  would 
go  back  alone,  but  not  with  the  rest  of  you.  You 
all  know  too  much.  One  would  never  be  safe. 
At  least,  you  think  you  know  too  much.  That 
story  I  told  you  was  make-up,  to  draw  you  all  on. 
Idiots  !  Fools  !  " 

Sir  Felix  stood  up.  "  Get  out  of  this,  Mr  Castle. 
We  cannot  have  you  with  us." 

Castle  did  not  move  till  Sir  Felix  was  quite 
near  him.  Then  he  rose  and  lurched  out  of  the 
hall  and  down  the  passage,  flinging  himself  into 
one  of  the  chambers  at  the  side. 

They  went  back  to  the  point  at  which  he  had 
interrupted  them.  "  Personally,"  said  Mr  Agra- 
vine,  "  I  think  I  should  be  contented  either  way. 
The  effect  of  being  buried  alive  for  a  few  hours 
has  been  to  show  me  that  the  whole  of  my  life  has 
been  a  mistake.  I  have  been  a  collector,  as  you 
know.  True,  I  have  collected  beautiful  things. 
That  makes  no  difference.  Property  has  been  my 
master.  Property  has  made  me  do  base  and  de- 
grading things.  Of  one  thing  I  am  certain.  If 


BURDON'S  TOMB  105 

by  any  chance  Miss  Averil  were  right,  and  we 
were  rescued,  I  would  change  my  way  of  life. 
My  pictures  should  go  to  the  nation.  I  would  be 
the  slave  of  property  no  longer." 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  understand,"  said  Mrs 
Langley,  "  what  you  mean  by  that." 

"  I  will  tell  you.  It  can  hardly  be  called  a  con- 
fession. It  is  really  too  paltry  for  that.  I  was 
hypnotized,  fascinated,  by  the  collector's  mania, 
and  that  drove  me  into  stupidities." 

"  Still,"  said  Mrs  Langley,  "  tell  us.  It  will  make 
the  time  pass." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mr  Agravine,  "  that  it  is  not 
the  love  of  beautiful  things  which  degrades.  I 
hope  not,  for  I  have  always  had  that  love.  De- 
gradation comes,  not  from  love,  but  from  posses- 
sion, and  that  applies  to  more  things  than  pictures. 
Until  quite  recently  I  was  not  a  wealthy  man. 
All  that  I  could  possibly  spare  was  spent  in  the 
acquisition  of  what  might  be  called  stagnant  capital. 
The  possession  of  a  thousand-pound  picture  costs 
a  man  forty  pounds  a  year,  whether  he  knows  it 
or  whether  he  does  not.  I  was  frequently  hard 
pressed  for  money.  I  was  frequently  tortured  by 
being  compelled  to  relinquish  some  purchase  on 
which  I  had  set  my  heart. 

"Such  things  do  one  no  good.  Again,  I  have 
not  been  a  picture-dealer  in  the  accepted  sense  of 
the  word,  but  I  have  often  sold  one  beautiful  thing 
in  order  to  acquire  something  which  I  thought 
more  beautiful.  I  made  the  greatest  profit  that 
I  possibly  could.  I  brought  commerce  very  near 


io6  STORIES  IN  GREY 

to  a  swindle.  One  instance  particularly  lingers  in 
my  memory.  It  was  a  thing  which  I  did  quite 
deliberately,  and  it  now  seems  to  me  both  cruel 
and  absurd  to  have  done  it.  A  friend  of  mine 
told  me  that  he  knew  an  old  Frenchman  living  at 
Eastbourne  who  wished  to  dispose  of  a  picture. 
He  knew  nothing  of  its  history,  but  believed  it  to 
be  good.  He  wanted  an  expert  opinion  upon  it, 
and  I  was  an  expert.  To  oblige  my  friend  I  went 
down  to  Eastbourne  one  Saturday  to  see  this 
Frenchman — Janvier  his  name  was.  Janvier  was 
a  bachelor  living  in  a  small  house,  with  just  suffi- 
cient income  of  his  own.  In  all  matters  of  art  I 
soon  found  that  he  was  absolutely  ignorant,  but 
none  the  less  he  had  from  time  to  time  bought 
pictures,  some  twenty  of  them.  He  brought  out 
his  great  prize,  the  picture  which  he  believed  to  be 
good,  and  I  was  able  to  tell  him  at  once  where- 
abouts in  the  National  Gallery  he  would  be  able 
to  find  the  original  of  which  it  was  rather  a  poor 
copy.  But  among  the  twenty  there  was  one  other 
picture  which  I  saw  at  once  I  should  have  to  buy. 
I  asked  him  about  it.  '  It  was  sold  me,'  he  said- 
he  spoke  admirable  English — 'as  being,  in  all 
probability,  by  Corot.' 

"  I  laughed,  and  told  him  that  a  great  many 
pictures  were  sold  in  that  way,  and  that  if  Corot 
had  lived  to  a  hundred  years  and  painted  every 
minute  of  his  time  he  could  not  have  covered  all 
the  canvases  that  have  since  been  assigned  to  him. 
All  the  same,  that  picture  was  a  genuine  and  very 
fine  Corot,  and  I  knew  it. 


BURDON'S  TOMB  107 

" '  I  gave  ten  pounds  for  it,'  said  Janvier,  '  and  I 
would  not  take  less  than  twenty.' 

"  I  told  him  that  a  hundred  per  cent,  seemed 
rather  a  large  profit  to  expect,  but  after  a  certain 
amount  of  grumbling  I  wrote  him  a  cheque  for 
twenty  and  took  the  picture  back  to  town  with  me. 
It  is  one  of  the  best  things  in  my  collection  and  it 
is  worth  a  very  large  sum,  and  I  am  heartily 
ashamed  of  it." 

"  But,"  said  Miss  Gilderay, "  is  there,  after  all,  any- 
thing  dishonest  about  it?  If  the  people  who  are 
ignorant  try  to  do  business  with  the  people  who  are 
expert,  has  not  the  expert  got  the  right  to  profit 
by  it?" 

"It  ought  not  to  mean  that  he  should  buy  a  fine 
Corot  for  twenty  pounds.  Do  you  still  hear  some- 
one coming,  Miss  Averil  ?  For  I  assure  you  that  if 
we  are  ever  released  Janvier  shall  have  his  picture 
back." 

"Well,"  said  Sir  Felix,  "we  have  all  told  our 
stories  now  except  Miss  Averil.  And  she  is  too 
young  to  have  any  story  to  tell." 

"  I  have  done  good  things  and  bad  things,  but 
nothing  very  good  or  very  bad,"  said  Zoe. 

"  And  yet,"  said  Sir  Felix,  "  you  said  you 
were  not  sorry  that  this  had  happened,  and  that 
your  life  was  to  come  to  an  end." 

"  That  is  true.  But  it  is  the  future,  and  not  the 
past,  from  which  I  was  eager  to  escape.  I  will 
tell  you  just  a  little  thing,  a  scrap  of  family  history. 
My  parents  died  when  I  was  a  child,  and  one  of 
my  earliest  recollections  is  that  I  was  rather  proud 


io8  STORIES  IN  GREY 

of  my  hair,  because  an  artist  had  admired  it  and 
had  asked  to  paint  me,  and  that  my  mother  told 
me  not  to  be  proud  of  it,  and  that  if  I  knew  it 
would  be  a  cause  of  grief  to  me.  I  did  not  know. 
She  was  speaking  of  a  tradition  which  had  been  in 
our  family  for  six  generations.  It  was  only  a 
year  ago  that  in  some  papers  of  my  father's  I 
came  upon  the  story.  From  time  to  time  during 
the  last  six  generations  a  girl  had  been  born  in 
the  Averil  family  with  hair  like  mine,  and  in  every 
case  she  had  come  to  disaster.  In  most  of  the 
cases  recorded  she  had  died  insane.  During  their 
lifetime  my  father  and  mother  had  said  nothing  of 
this  to  me,  and  I  believed  that,  if  my  father  had 
not  died  so  suddenly,  he  would  have  destroyed  those 
papers,  in  order  to  spare  me.  Ever  since  I  read 
them  I  have  been  haunted.  For  it  is  true  that  I 
am  not  quite  normal.  Every  now  and  then,  not 
at  my  own  wish,  and  often  to  no  serious  purpose,  I 
have  had  what  Mrs  Langley  calls  that  special 
sense.  I  have  seen  things  that  were  happening 
far  away.  It's  a  pity,  because  I  love  life." 

"  And  if  we  are  rescued  ?  "  said  Mr  Agravine. 

"  What  is  to  be  is  to  be.  If  I  had  meant  to  take 
my  life,  I  should  have  done  so  a  year  ago.  If  I 
am  rescued,  I  shall  go  back  and  meet  whatever 
fate  has  got  for  me.  And  I  think  we  shall  be 
rescued,  for  now  I  hear  far  more  distinctly  the  sound 
of  people  coming.  Listen  !  Can  you  not  all  hear  it  ?  " 

For  a  moment  all  held  their  breath.  There  was 
a  tense,  deep  silence.  And  then  suddenly  Mr 
Agravine  rose  and  put  his  ear  to  the  wall. 


BURDON'S  TOMB  109 

"It  is  so,"  he  said.  "Come  here,  Burdon,and  listen." 

Sir  Felix  listened  for  a  moment. 

"There  can  be  no  mistake  about  it.  That  is  the 
sound  of  picks.  There  are  many  of  them  at  work. 
In  a  few  hours  now  they  should  get  through  to  us." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  thing  if  I  went  and  told 
Mr  Castle  ?  "  said  Zoe  Averil.  "  I  think  it  was  he 
who  most  wanted  to  get  back  to  the  world  again." 

"  No,"  said  Sir  Felix.  "  Don't  do  that.  I  will 
go  and  tell  him  myself." 

He  went,  and  in  a  few  moments  returned.  He 
said  nothing  until  Miss  Gilderay  questioned  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  I've  told  him." 

"  Hasn't  that  made  any  difference  ?  "  asked  Mrs 
Langley.  "  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  says  that  the  spirit  of  the  high  priest  is  in 
him,  and  that  this  is  his  tomb.  Nothing  else. 
Mad,  of  course.  But  he  is  perfectly  quiet.  He 
will  probably  recover  when  he  gets  out  of  this." 

The  women  had  a  feeling  that  their  rescuers 
should  find  them  ready,  and  that  everything  should 
be  in  order.  Helped  by  Sir  Felix  and  Mr  Agravine, 
they  cleared  the  table  out  of  the  hall  altogether. 
In  the  chamber  where  he  lay,  they  could  hear  Mr 
Castle  breathing  heavily,  as  though  asleep. 

About  an  hour  later,  as  Sir  Felix  and  Mr 
Agravine  sat  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  picks, 
the  women  entered.  Mrs  Langley  was  drawing  on 
her  gloves  and  carried  her  camera.  Zoe  had 
changed  into  her  own  clothes  again.  Miss 
Gilderay  had  rearranged  her  hair.  They  were  all 
quite  ready. 


no  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"This  is  good  of  you,"  said  Sir  Felix.  "  It  will 
be  much  pleasanter  if  we  five  all  wait  together. 
There  is  only  another  hour  or  two  now.  Listen  !  " 

They  could  hear  the  blows  of  the  picks.  They 
sat  down,  and  for  a  time  talked  a  little,  wondering 
who  had  organized  the  rescue  and  how  it  had  been 
accomplished.  And  presently,  because  the  air  was 
very  heavy  and  they  had  been  short  of  sleep  the 
night  before,  and  a  great  strain  had  been  taken  off 
their  minds,  they  became  drowsy. 

"  I  believe  I'm  going  to  sleep,"  said  Miss 
Gilderay,  leaning  back  in  her  deck-chair, 

"I  too,"  said  Sir  Felix.  "Why  not?  It  will 
help  to  pass  the  time  of  waiting." 

Soon  they  were  so  soundly  asleep  that  they  did 
not  hear  the  stealthy  footsteps  from  the  adjoining 
chamber. 

Silent  and  barefooted,  carrying  the  glowing 
charcoal  stove  in  his  hands,  Castle  crept  into  the 
store-room.  With  deep  breaths  he  drew  in  the 
poison.  He  turned  to  tear  down  the  curtain  that 
filled  the  entrance  to  the  room,  in  order  that  the 
fumes  might  spread  and  all  might  die  together. 
But  before  he  could  reach  it  he  swayed  and  fell, 
and  lay  motionless. 

And  now  the  picks  broke  down  into  the  entrance- 
hall  of  the  tomb.  Through  the  opening  streamed 
in  a  glorious  sunlight  that  made  the  candle  flames 
pale,  and  fresh,  untainted  air.  And  with  these 
came  fresh  life  and  fresh  courage  to  face  it — for  all, 
save  that  dead  boy  lying  behind  the  curtain  by  the 
charcoal  stove. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 

THE  air  of  the  primitive  and  remote  island  was 
soft  and  languorous.  Its  population  consisted  of 
a  man  and  woman,  brown-skinned,  and  without 
any  of  the  blessings  of  education  and  religion. 
This  afternoon  the  population  had  been  bathing, 
and  now  lay  on  the  sand  in  the  sun. 

"  Presently,"  said  the  man,  "  we  will  go  and  look 
at  the  boat  which  has  drifted  ashore." 

"  Presently,"  said  the  girl,  lazily.  "  It  is  a  good 
boat." 

"  Very  good  boat,"  echoed  the  man.  "  It  will 
be  useful  to  us."  And  immediately  he  fell 
asleep. 

In  a  moment  or  two  the  girl  awakened  him. 
She  was  in  a  philosophical  humour,  and  there  is 
not  much  fun  in  being  philosophical  all  by  yourself. 

"  Are  you  happy  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  man.  "  I  have  never 
thought  about  it." 

"  Then  you  are  happy,"  she  said  with  decision. 
"  People  who  think  about  it  are  not.  I,  for  ex- 
ample, am  not." 

"  If  we  now  roused  ourselves  a  little  and  caught 
a  few  fish—" 

"  No,"  said  the  girl,  decisively,  "  I  wish  to  talk." 

The  man  sighed. 

HI 


ii2  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"Do  you  not  know  what  it  is  to  wish  to  be 
taken  out  of  yourself,  and  to  become  somebody 
else — to  be  full  of  inspiration  from  the  gods? 
These  days  and  nights  that  are  always  the  same 
are  becoming  a  burden  to  me.  I  want  to  be  dif- 
ferent for  a  little  while." 

"  It  is  not  possible,"  said  the  man.  "  There  are 
gods  undoubtedly.  It  was  always  the  opinion  of 
our  forefathers  that  there  were  gods,  but  the  gods 
never  interfere  with  us  and  we  cannot  get  at 
them.  Therefore  they  do  not  concern  us,  and  it  is 
much  better  to  catch  a  few  fish." 

The  girl,  looking  as  if  she  might  burst  into  tears 
at  any  moment,  said  that  she  hated  fish,  and  that 
she  hated  her  island,  and  that  she  hated  herself. 

"  I  wish  to  meet  with  one  of  the  gods,"  she  said. 
"  I  wish  to  talk  with  someone  who  is  more  than 
mortal.  Tell  me  what  the  gods  look  like." 

"As  to  that,"  said  the  man,  "more  than  one 
opinion  has  been  expressed.  There  are  some  who 
say  that  the  gods  are  like  big  men,  taller  than  the 
palm  trees,  of  gigantic  strength.  There  are  others 
who  say  that  the  gods  cannot  be  seen,  and  that  it 
is  only  by  their  influence  within  us  that  they  may 
be  recognized.  To  talk  of  things  which  we  do  not 
know  is  very  foolish.  If  you  will  not  catch  fish, 
let  us  go  and  look  at  the  boat." 

The  woman  arose  rather  sullenly,  and  followed 
him. 

They  found  in  the  boat  a  tin  containing  biscuits. 
They  had  never  seen  biscuits  before,  but  a  little 
investigation  showed  them  the  use  to  which  they 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  113 

should  be  put.  They  bored  holes  in  them  and 
hung  them  round  their  necks. 

They  found,  moreover,  a  large  square  bottle, 
containing  a  colourless  fluid.  The  girl  removed 
the  cork,  dipped  her  finger  in  the  fluid,  and  touched 
her  tongue. 

"Of  what  does  it  taste?"  asked  the  man, 
anxiously. 

"  Of  fire  and  sleep  and  sin,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the  man,  "  I  will  go  and 
fetch  our  drinking-cups." 

The  drinking-cups  were  two  halves  of  the  shell 
of  a  cocoanut,  smooth  and  polished  by  much  use. 
The  man  filled  them,  and  they  drank  in  slow  sips. 
A  drink  which  tastes  of  fire  and  sleep  and  sin 
cannot  be  taken  hastily.  As  she  filled  their  cups 
for  the  second  time,  the  girl  observed  that  she  be- 
lieved there  was  a  god  in  that  bottle. 

Next  morning  the  girl  awoke  and  zigzagged  from 
the  point  where  she  had  fallen  down  the  beach  to 
the  sea.  She  kept  her  head  under  water  for  the 
longest  possible  time.  Then  she  rose  to  the  sur- 
face and  swam  slowly  and  lazily.  Presently  the 
man's  head  shot  up  by  her  side.  He  also  had  been 
down  below. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it  at  all,"  said 
the  girl.  "  We  have  found  the  unknown  god,  and 
by  his  influence  within  us  he  may  be  recognized." 

"I  do  not  feel  at  all  good  this  morning,"  said 
the  man. 

"Nor  I,"  said  the  girl.     "But   last   night   was 
H 


H4  STORIES  IN  GREY 

magnificent.  Never  have  I  danced  so  long  and  so 
wildly.  Never  have  I  laughed  so  much." 

"  I  had  an  impression,"  said  the  man,  as  he 
swam  by  her  side,  "that  I  was  being  unusually 
witty." 

"  No,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  do  not  think  it  was  that. 
Everything  was  amusing.  I  laughed  at  the  sea,  I 
laughed  at  the  boat,  I  laughed  at  the  trees.  You 
also  laughed." 

"I  remember  it,"  said  the  man.  "The  entire 
world  had  suddenly  become  ridiculous.  But  this 
morning  I  do  not  feel  at  all  good."  He  dived 
under  a  wave  with  the  girl  after  him,  and  presently 
they  lay  side  by  side  on  the  sand. 

"  It  is  about  this  time  in  the  morning,"  said  the 
girl, "  that  we  generally  catch  fish  for  our  breakfast, 
but  to-day  I  do  not  wish  to  catch  fish  for  my 
breakfast,  and  I  think  I  do  not  wish  to  eat  any- 
thing more  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  I  have  the  same  feeling,"  said  the  man.  "  Why 
then  should  this  be  if  indeed  it  was  a  god  that  we 
found  in  the  boat  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  the  girl,  "  if  with  great  force  you 
pull  the  bough  of  a  tree  in  one  direction  and  then 
let  go,  it  will  swing  with  great  force  in  the  other 
direction.  Because  last  night  we  were  exalted, 
therefore  this  morning  we  are  abased.  I  am 
willing.  I  pay  the  price.  Why  do  you  get  up? 
Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  am  going,"  said  the  man,  "  to  see  if  by  any 
chance  there  is  still  left  in  the  bottle  a  little  of  that 
drink  which  tastes  of  fire  and  sleep  and  sin." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  115 

"  Lie  down  again,"  said  the  girl.  "  There  is  not 
any  left.  I  have  looked  into  the  matter  myself." 

Two  days  later  the  man  and  the  girl  built  up  a 
rough  altar  of  white  stones  on  the  beach,  and  on 
the  top  of  the  altar  they  placed  the  bottle  in  which 
the  god  had  lived.  The  perfume  of  his  presence 
was  still  there.  The  man  thinks  now  that  the  girl 
spends  too  much  time  in  the  contemplation  of 
it.  And  what  will  happen  when  the  missionaries 
land  ? 


THE  LAST  CHANCE 

I 

DAWN  was  coming.  Birds  were  waking  and 
twittering  in  the  Embankment  Gardens.  A  cool 
breeze  swept  out  the  heavy  and  sultry  air  of  the 
night.  In  another  half-hour  Mr  Horrocks  would 
be  able  to  extinguish  the  lights  at  his  coffee-stall. 
Meanwhile,  in  an  interval  of  business,  he  talked 
to  a  young  man  who  had  been  a  regular  customer 
of  his  for  many  nights  past.  Mr  Horrocks  did  not 
remain  idle  while  he  talked.  He  wiped  his  counter 
down,  and  gave  certain  thick  cups  and  saucers 
as  much  washing  as  he  thought  would  be  good  for 
them.  He  was  a  placid  and  portly  man  of  fifty, 
much  respected  by  his  customers.  If  two  of  these 
scarecrows  of  the  night  had  a  difference,  they  would 
occasionally  ask  Mr  Horrocks  to  adjudicate,  and 
from  his  decisions  there  was  no  appeal. 

The  young  man  who  was  talking  to  Horrocks 
was  in  rags,  but  he  was  not  altogether  ill-looking. 
He  had  melancholy  eyes  and  a  gentle  expression. 
His  speech  was  the  speech  of  an  educated  man. 

"  I  can  find  nothing  to  do,"  he  said.  "  I'm  at  the 
end  of  my  money.  I've  some  thoughts  of  putting 
myself  in  the  water.  The  trouble  is  that  I  can 
swim  a  bit." 

Mr  Horrocks  considered  the  proposition  without 
116 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  117 

emotion,  much  as  if  the  young  man  had  said  he 
was  going  to  have  his  hair  cut. 

"I  shouldn't  advise  it,"  he  said.  "You  never 
know  your  luck.  Now,  from  what  some  of  the 
others  told  me  to-night,  I  rather  gathered  you  was 
one  time  at  Cambridge  College." 

"No.  I  was  an  Oxford  man.  I  was  sent 
down." 

"  All  the  same  thing,"  said  Mr  Horrocks.  "  It 
means  you've  got  eddication.  That's  a  grand 
thing.  Wish  I  had  it  myself.  That  gives  you  an 
advantage  over  the  others,  that  does.  School- 
mastering,  now — that's  open  to  you." 

"  In  these  clothes  ?     And  with  no  character  ? " 

"  That's  against  you,"  Mr  Horrocks  admitted. 
"Done  time?" 

He  put  the  question  as  casually  as  if  he  had 
been  asking  the  young  man  if  he  knew  Brighton. 

"  No,  I've  never  been  in  prison.  I  was  a  gambler 
and  still  am.  I  drank  very  hard,  but  I've  given 
that  up.  It  has  to  be  all  or  nothing  with  me. 
I've  been  chucked  by  my  family  and  most  of  my 
friends,  and  I've  chucked  the  rest  myself,  out  of 
pride.  I  believe  I  have  the  makings  of  an  artist 
in  me — a  painter,  you  know." 

"Some  of  the  screevers  do  well  enough.  You 
want  a  dry  day  and  a  good  pitch." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  real  painting.  But 
I  can't  get  at  it,  and  I  don't  suppose  there'd  be 
any  money  in  it  if  I  could.  I  can't  beg,  or  steal, 
or  use  any  tools  that  make  a  nasty  noise.  Some 
men  can,  but  I  can't ;  I  can't  do  what  I  don't  like." 


n8  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"Ah!"  said  Mr  Horrocks.  "If  you  starts 
picking  and  choosing,  no  wonder  you  finds  it 
difficult.  You  can't  afford  to  do  that.  That's 
what  you've  got  to  say  to  yourself.  Seeing  now 
as  you  can't  get  at  the  painting  and  decorating, 
what  is  it  you  do  want  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  your  berth  very  well,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"  Hard  work,  me  young  friend.  A  deal  harder 
than  you  think." 

"  There  are  some  kinds  of  work,"  said  the  young 
man,  reflectively,  "  that  I  don't  object  to  at  all.  I 
like  to  be  out  at  night.  I  like  to  talk  to  the  people 
who've  gone  under.  I  like  to  see  the  dawn  coming. 
You've  got  an  interesting  life,  Mr  Horrocks.  Is 
there  any  money  in  it  ?  " 

"There  isn't  a  fortune,  but  there's  a  livelihood 
for  a  worker." 

"  If  you'd  take  me  on  to  help  you,  I'd  work." 

Mr  Horrocks  extinguished  an  evil-smelling  flare. 

"  There's  no  work  for  you  here,"  he  said.  "  But 
I  might  find  it  for  you  elsewhere." 

"  Meaning  what  ?  " 

"  Meaning  that  I  could  do  with  another  stall. 
I  should  know  where  to  pitch  it,  and  how  to  work 
it.  If  I  had  it,  I'd  give  you  a  chance.  You  can't 
get  a  stall  and  a  fit-out  like  this  for  nothing.  If 
you  could  come  to  me  and  put  down  three  golden 
sovereigns,  I'd  start  you  right  away,  in  a  sort  of 
partnership  with  myself." 

"  Three  golden  sovereigns,"  said  the  young  man, 
and  laughed. 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  119 

"  Well,"  said  Horrocks, "  that  ought  to  be  possible 
for  a  young  man  that's  been  to  Oxford  College 
and  had  all  the  advantages." 

"  Can't  be  done.  I've  no  more  clothes  to  pawn 
— nothing  but  what  I  stand  up  in." 

"If  that  ring  on  your  ringer  ain't  flash,  you've 
got  a  chance  still." 

The  ring  was  a  plain  gold  signet.  The  young 
man  looked  at  it. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "What  could  I  get 
for  it?" 

"  A  sovereign.  I'd  lend  you  that  on  it  myself. 
Then  you'd  go  to  the  Salvationers,  or  to  the 
Church  Army,  and  they'd  show  you  how  to 
start  at  peddling.  You'll  have  made  the  money 
in  a  month.  It's  worth  thinking  about.  Better 
than  the  river,  anyway." 

The  young  man  drew  the  ring  from  his 
finger. 

"I  hadn't  meant  to  part  with  this,"  he  said. 
"But,  however,  it's  the  last  chance.  Take  it, 
Mr  Horrocks.  If  you  find  it's  all  right,  give  me 
a  sovereign  for  it  to-morrow  night." 

Mr  Horrocks  examined  the  ring  with  great  care. 
Then  he  took  a  sovereign  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket  and  laid  it  down  on  the  counter. 

"  You  can  get  quite  a  nice  lot  of  stuff  for  that," 
he  said.  "As  much  as  you  can  carry.  Dress 
materials  and  a  line  of  cheap  watches  is  what  I 
should  recommend.  Get  hold  of  the  servants  at 
the  good  houses.  They've  all  got  some  money 
to  spend,  and  they're  mostly  mugs." 


120  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"  No,"  said  the  young  man.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
do  that." 

"  What,  then  ?  "  asked  Mr  Horrocks. 

"Perseus  for  the  Derby,"  said  the  young  man. 
"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  a  gambler  ?  " 

"  They  tell  me  it's  all  right,"  said  Mr  Horrocks. 
"There's  nothing  else  in  it  except  the  favourite. 
I'd  thought  of  backing  it  myself.  Still,  you  see, 
it's  no  certainty,  and  the  other  thing  is." 

The  young  man  laughed,  finished  his  coffee, 
and  walked  away. 


II 


EDWARD  SEATON  tramped  from  London  to 
Epsom.  This  is  the  cheapest  way  to  go  to  the 
Derby,  and  on  a  fine  day  it  is  not  the  least 
pleasant.  He  had  deposited  his  sovereign  with 
a  substantial  bookmaker  whom  he  had  known 
in  his  younger  days.  He  had  threepence  in  his 
possession.  One  penny  of  this  was  to  pay  for 
his  breakfast.  The  remaining  twopence  was  to 
help  him  on  his  way  back  to  town.  Of  course,  he 
might  be  able  to  get  a  lift  for  nothing,  but  it  was 
better  to  have  something  in  reserve. 

Queer  and  erratic,  he  saw  now  a  possibility  of 
the  kind  of  life  that  he  would  like.  He  would  do 
his  utmost  to  make  Horrocks's  new  coffee-stall 
successful.  He  himself  would  live  as  cheaply  as 
possible.  Very  soon  he  would  be  able  to  buy  the 
materials,  and,  when  his  night's  work  was  over, 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  121 

would  get  two  or  three  hours  of  painting  before  he 
went  to  bed.  It  was  a  life  which  would  never 
bring  him  into  contact  with  any  of  the  people 
whom  he  had  known  in  his  old  days — the  people 
before  whom  he  felt  humiliated.  He  would  be 
dealing  with  the  dead-beat,  and  he  understood 
them.  He  had  had  hours  of  the  greatest  excite- 
ment, thinking  over  this  last  chance,  planning  the 
great  results  that  might  ultimately  follow  from  his 
partnership  with  Mr  Horrocks.  His  life  so  far  had 
been  a  mistake.  He  had  tried  to  live  the  con- 
ventional life,  and  it  had  torn  up  his  nerves  and 
driven  him  to  drink.  He  had  neglected,  his  one 
natural  gift.  A  few  sneers  from  his  family  had 
been  enough  to  make  him  ashamed,  and  to 
convince  him  that  he  could  never  become  an  artist. 
That  was  all  past  now.  In  future  he  would  model 
his  life  to  suit  himself,  and  one  day,  possibly,  he 
might  find  himself  back  in  his  old  position.  What 
he  had  to  do  was  to  be  independent,  to  judge  for 
himself,  to  map  out  his  own  line.  In  his  boyhood 
he  had  tried  to  be  docile,  and  docility  had  been  a 
complete  failure. 

He  was  no  longer  excited.  The  moment  for 
that  had  gone  past.  He  got  away  from  the  roaring 
crowd  on  the  hill,  and  sat  at  a  little  distance  by 
himself.  He  had  meant  to  watch  the  race,  but 
after  the  first  false  start  he  found  that  he  could  not 
stand  it.  It  was  better  for  him  to  sit  quietly  with 
his  head  in  his  hands.  He  could  hear  now  the 
roar  of  the  crowd.  "  Perseus !  Perseus  wins ! 
Perseus ! " 


122 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


He  rose  to  his  feet  now  and  walked  slowly  back 
to  the  crowd.  He  limped  badly,  for  his  feet  were 
blistered  with  the  long  walk. 

"What's  won?"  he  asked  of  the  first  man 
he  met. 

"The  favourite,"  said  the  man,  exultantly. 
"  Won  by  a  head.  Good  finish." 

Seaton  burst  out  laughing.  "  Very  good  finish," 
he  said,  and  turned  away. 

There  would  be  no  hurry  to  get  back  to  London 
now.  He  spent  his  twopence  on  food,  for  he 
was  terribly  hungry,  and  then  sought  out  some 
spot  on  the  downs  where  he  could  lie  quiet  and 
sleep. 

As  he  limped  along  his  eyes  caught  a  bright 
object  lying  in  the  grass.  For  one  breathless 
moment  he  thought  that  luck  had  come  back  to 
him.  Then  he  picked  the  thing  up.  It  was  not  a 
sovereign,  after  all.  It  was  a  new  farthing,  on  one 
side  of  which  a  cross  had  been  scratched. 

As  he  stood  looking  at  it  two  people  approached 
him.  They  belonged  to  the  class  that  he  did  not 
want  to  meet  any  more — a  man  and  a  woman. 
The  man  was  elderly  and  correctly  dressed,  a 
veritable  tailor's  triumph.  The  woman  was  very 
young,  pretty,  and  impulsive  in  manner. 

"  You've  found  it  ? "  she  said  eagerly. 

Seaton  raised  his  cap.  "  I  have  found  a  new 
farthing,"  he  said.  "If  that  is  what  you  mean,  I 
shall  be  very  happy  to  return  it  to  you." 

She  stared  at  him.  His  words  and  appearance 
did  not  seem  to  consort  together.  She  took  the 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  123 

coin  from  him,  thanked  him,  and  turned  to  her 
companion. 

"  George,"  she  said,  "  give  this  man  a  sovereign, 
please." 

"  Certainly,  a  shilling  by  all  means.  And  a  very 
good  bargain  for  you,  my  fine  fellow.  If  you  can 
keep  on  exchanging  farthings  for  shillings  you'll 
soon  be  rich." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  George.  I  said  a  sovereign. 
Are  you  getting  deaf  already  ? " 

"  Oh,  have  it  your  own  way,"  said  the  man,  as 
he  took  the  coin  from  his  sovereign-case. 

"But,"  said  Edward  Seaton  to  the  lady,  "why 
do  you  give  me  a  sovereign  for  a  farthing  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Did  you  never  hear  of  mascots  ?  That 
farthing's  the  finest  mascot  I  ever  had  in  my  life. 
I  wouldn't  have  lost  it  for  anything." 

"  Here,  I  say,"  said  the  man.  "  We  can't  stop 
talking  to  this  chap  all  day." 

"  Of  course  you  can't,"  said  Seaton. 

He  took  the  coin,  thanked  them,  and  limped 
away.  Here,  then,  was  a  reprieve.  The  last 
chance  was  not  yet  quite  over.  It  was  true  that  his 
scheme  had  failed,  but  that  seemed  to  him  now  of 
much  less  importance.  He  would  not  be  compelled 
to  walk  back  to  London.  And  when  he  got  there 
he  would  be  able  to  afford  himself  the  luxury  of  a 
bath  and  a  good  bed.  Also,  he  would  eat  and 
drink.  And  to-morrow,  of  course,  he  would  die. 

He  passed  through  a  crowd  of  shouting  book- 
makers, and  unintentionally  his  eye  fell  on  the  list 
of  horses  for  the  next  race,  with  the  odds  chalked 


124  STORIES  IN  GREY 

up  against  them.  One  of  the  horses  had  a  name 
which  arrested  him.  He  picked  his  bookmaker 
very  carefully. 

"  What  price  Farthing  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Thirties." 

"  Right,"  said  Seaton,  handing  up  the  coin.  "  I 
want  a  sovereign  on." 

The  bookmaker  was  a  good-humoured,  honest- 
looking  old  fellow.  He  bent  down  towards 
Seaton. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "You  don't  want  no 
thick  'un  on  it.  Have  a  shilling  on  it.  It  can't 
win.  No  earthly.  I  don't  want  to  take  a  poor 
man's  money.  Put- a  shilling  on,  and  save  the  rest 
to  buy  the  missis  a  tarara." 

"  I  dare  say  you're  right,"  said  Seaton ;  "  and 
you're  a  good  chap,  anyhow.  But  I  want  to  put 
that  sovereign  on.  I  suppose  you  can  pay  if 
I  win  ?  " 

The  bookmaker  laughed.  "  Pay  ?  Yes,  and  be 
thankful  to  have  the  chance.  You're  the  only 
man  on  the  earth  that's  backed  it." 

A  few  minutes  later  Seaton,  with  thirty-one 
pounds  in  his  pocket,  was  making  his  way  to  the 
railway  station,  when  once  more  he  encountered 
that  extremely  well-dressed  old  gentleman. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Seaton. 

"  Chuck  it ! "  said  the  man.  "  You  get  no  more 
out  of  me  to-day." 

"  I  wanted  to  return  this  sovereign.  Thank  you 
very  much  for  the  loan  of  it." 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  125 


III 

MR  HORROCKS  could  hardly  believe  his  own  eyes. 
He  groped  for  a  possible  explanation. 

"  Then  you  didn't  back  Perseus  after  all  ? "  he 
said. 

"  I  did,"  said  Seaton,  "and  I  lost." 

"You've  got  a  new  fit-out  of  clothes.  You've 
just  given  me  a  quid  to  get  your  ring  back.  It 
beats  me.  Oh,  I  see.  Your  people  have  been 
coming  down  with  the  stuff,  eh  ?  " 

"  No.  After  the  Derby  had  been  run  I  borrowed 
a  sovereign,  and  backed  the  winner  for  the  next 
race.  Thirty  to  one." 

"You,  in  those  rags,  managed  to  borrow  a 
sovereign  up  on  Epsom  Downs?  Man,  you're  a 
genius." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Seaton.  "But  let's  talk 
business." 

"What?  You're  still  game  to  come  in  with 
me?" 

"Of  course  I  am.  I've  got  to  live,  and  I  want 
to  paint.  I  shall  get  my  living  out  of  the  coffee- 
stall,  and  I  shall  get  it  in  a  way  that  won't  upset 
and  annoy  me.  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  left 
for  painting.  I  don't  sleep  much." 

Seaton  went  back  with  Horrocks  to  his  home 
after  business,  and  was  presented  to  Mrs  Horrocks. 
He  examined  such  accounts  as  Horrocks  kept, 
and  was  surprised  to  find  that  so  much  profit 
could  be^made  by  catering,  in  part,  at  any  rate,  for 


126  STORIES  IN  GREY 

the  last  pennies  of  the  dead-beat.  Of  course, 
Horrocks  had  working-men  customers  as  well, 
substantial  men  who  really  breakfasted.  For  the 
next  few  nights  Seaton  assisted  Horrocks  with  his 
stall,  and  learned  more  thoroughly  the  details  of 
the  trade.  After  that  he  managed  another  stall  by 
himself. 

Ten  years  later,  when  Edward  Seaton  was 
elected  Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy,  nobody 
was  surprised.  Many  thought  that  he  should  have 
been  elected  earlier. 

Good  fortune  had  followed  him  persistently. 
The  first  two  pictures  that  he  sent  to  the  Academy 
were  hung  on  the  line.  They  were  London  sub- 
jects— "  Dawn  on  the  Embankment "  and  "  Satur- 
day Night  in  the  Edgware  Road."  They  were 
mentioned  with  approval  by  a  bishop  preaching  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  In  all  questions  of  art  the 
bishop  was  an  innocent  child.  But  that  did  not 
matter.  Through  the  whole  of  Monday  there  was 
always  a  little  group  of  people  in  front  of  Seaton's 
pictures.  A  critic,  who  had  returned  to  the  show 
after  many  days,  in  order  to  settle  a  point  in 
dispute  between  himself  and  another  critic,  noticed 
the  group,  and  for  the  first  time  noticed  Seaton's 
pictures.  He  spent  about  half  an  hour  on  them, 
and  then  decided  to  discover  Seaton. 

He  discovered  him  in  an  article  in  a  daily  paper, 
also  in  various  paragraphs,  also  in  conversation 
with  critics  and  other  artists.  The  innocent 
bishop,  finding  to  his  utter  amazement  that  he  had 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  127 

for  once  appreciated  a  work  of  art,  purchased 
"  Dawn  on  the  Embankment "  for  the  sum  of  one 
hundred  pounds.  He  subsequently  sold  it  for  five 
hundred,  and  we  may  be  sure  that  he  devoted  the 
profits  to  some  good  purpose. 

Having  taken  his  line,  Seaton  kept  it.  He  never 
painted  a  portrait.  He  never  painted  anything 
except  London.  The  critic  who  had  been  his  first 
evangelist  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  that  Seaton 
had  discovered  London.  In  the  following  exhi- 
bition he  again  showed  two  pictures — "  Sunset  in 
Regent's  Park  "  and  "  The  Coffee-Stall."  He  sold 
both  of  these,  and  sold  them  well.  It  was  at  this 
juncture  that  he  gave  up  work  at  the  coffee-stall 
himself,  and  became  known  once  more  to  his  family 
and  friends.  His  family,  having  done  their  very 
utmost  to  prevent  Edward  from  becoming  an  artist, 
now  rejoiced  in  a  success  which,  they  asserted  and 
believed,  they  had  always  foretold. 

On  the  occasion  of  his  election  a  few  bachelor 
friends  of  his  asked  him  to  dine  at  the  club.  They 
were  for  the  most  part  artists,  but  the  talk  after 
dinner  strayed  over  many  subjects,  and  lingered 
finally  on  the  subject  of  the  theatre.  "I  often 
wonder,"  said  old  Burden,  "  what  became  of  Mar- 
garet Gaye.  She  was  about  the  finest  Juliet  we've 
ever  had.  She  could  play  comedy  too,  and  she 
was  as  pretty  as  one  could  wish.  I  wonder  why 
we  never  hear  of  her  now." 

"  She's  been  ill,"  said  another  man.  "  I  know  it 
because  I  was  painting  her  portrait  at  the  time. 
That  was  a  queer  thing.  She  showed  me  her 


128 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


mascot,  a  farthing  with  a  cross  scratched  on  it. 
Her  belief  in  it  was  intense.  She  said  she  would 
never  part  from  it  and  that  while  she  had  it  her 
luck  would  never  leave  her.  Next  day  she  was 
down  with  rheumatic  fever.  It  was  nearly  a  year 
ago,  and  I've  got  that  unfinished  portrait  in  my 
studio  still.  I've  never  seen  her  since." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Seaton. 

"I  ought  to  have  done.  Meant  to  have  done. 
But  just  at  that  time  I  was  most  appallingly  busy, 
and  afterwards  it  slipped  out  of  my  mind.  I  sup- 
pose she's  still  alive,  as  we've  seen  no  obituary 
notices.  I'd  go  and  look  her  up  next  week,  if  I 
knew  where  she  lived.  She  had  a  house  at  Earl's 
Court,  but  somebody  or  other  told  me  she  had 
given  that  up  and  gone  away." 

"Let's  see,"  said  Seaton,  reflectively.  "Whom 
did  she  marry  ?  " 

"Never  married  anybody.  Might  have  done. 
As  things  have  turned  out,  I  dare  say  it  would 
have  been  better  for  her  if  she  had.  I  don't 
suppose  she  had  saved  much  money.  She  was  a 
reckless  little  woman,  and  a  born  gambler." 

"  Gambling's  a  mistake,"  said  Seaton,  as  he  filled 
his  glass  and  passed  on  the  decanter.  He  himself 
played  bridge  for  half-a-crown  a  hundred  now,  and 
never  for  any  higher  point,  and  never  made  a  bet. 
He  had  given  up  teetotalism  and  drank  wine  at 
dinner  and  at  no  other  time.  He  had  got  himself 
in  hand.  It  had  taken  a  good  deal  of  doing,  but  it 
was  done. 

On  the  following  morning  Seaton   went  to  a 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  129 

private  inquiry  office.  "  I  want,"  he  said,  "  the 
present  address  of  Miss  Gaye." 

"  Margaret  Gaye  ?  The  actress  ? "  asked  the 
private  detective. 

"Yes.  About  a  year  ago  she  had  a  house  at 
Earl's  Court.  That's  all  I  can  tell  you.  Can  you 
do  that  for  me  ?  " 

The  detective  smiled.  "  I  wish  I  was  never 
asked  to  do  anything  more  difficult,  sir." 

"  You  understand  that  it  must  be  done  without 
Miss  Gaye's  knowledge,  without  causing  her  any 
annoyance." 

"Quite  so.  As  a  matter  of  course.  You  will 
have  the  address  to-morrow,  sir." 


IV 

SEATON  drove  down  to  Wimbledon  in  his  own  car. 
Then  he  sent  the  driver  back  with  the  car  and 
started  on  foot  in  search  of  the  house.  He  found 
it  with  no  great  trouble — a  very  small  house  in  a 
very  back  street  —  and  a  very  young  servant 
answered  the  bell. 

"Is  Miss  Gaye  in?" 

"Well,"  said  the  maid,  doubtfully,  "she  is  in, 
but—" 

"  Give  her  this  note — my  card's  in  it — and  ask  if 
she  will  see  me." 

In  a  minute  the  maid  returned.  "  Miss  Gaye 
will  see  you,  sir." 

Seaton  was  shown  into  a  drawing-room  of  the 


130  STORIES  IN  GREY 

smallest  size,  principally  furnished  with  a  grand 
piano.  As  he  entered  Margaret  Gaye  rose  from 
her  chair  by  the  fire,  still  holding  his  note  in  one 
hand.  She  was  thinner  than  when  he  last  saw  her, 
and  she  was  older — as  a  matter  of  fact,  thirty-two. 
The  impression  she  made  on  Seaton  was  that 
her  beauty  had  become  etherealized  and  rather 
pathetic. 

"  I  don't  understand  this  at  all,"  she  said,  as  she 
shook  hands  with  him.  "You  say  I  once  saved 
your  life.  I  never  did  anything  so  heroical.  I'm 
afraid  I've  saved  very  little,  and  certainly  not  the 
life  of  a  famous  artist.  Won't  you  sit  down  and 
tell  me  about  it,  Mr  Seaton  ?  " 

He  sat  down  and  told  her  his  story,  from 
beginning  to  end. 

"Then,"  she  said,  "it  was  true  what  I  read  in 
one  of  the  newspapers — that  you  once  kept  a 
coffee-stall?" 

"Perfectly  true.  Quite  interesting  work  for  a 
time." 

"  And  is  it  really  true  that  you've  been  looking 
for  me  ever  since  ?  " 

"Quite  true.  I  did  not  know  your  name,  you 
see.  I  had  nothing  to  go  by.  It  was  only  two 
nights  ago  that  I  was  dining  with  some  artists, 
and  they  spoke  with  admiration  of  your 
acting." 

"  I'm  afraid  that's  all  over,"  said  Margaret. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Seaton,  and  did  not  appear  to 
notice  that  Miss  Gaye  looked  slightly  perplexed 
at  this,  "And  one  of  the  artists,"  he  continued, 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  131 

"happened  to  mention  your  farthing  mascot. 
Then,  of  course,  I  knew." 

"  I  had  a  very  long  illness  and  had  to  leave 
London.  I  went — well,  down  in  the  world.  None 
of  my  old  friends  ever  comes  near  me.  How  did 
you  get  my  address  ?  " 

"In  the  dirtiest  possible  way — through  a  private 
inquiry  office.  If  any  dirtier  way  had  been 
necessary  I  would  have  taken  that.  It  has  taken 
me  ten  years  to  find  you.  Once  I  was  on  the 
track  I  couldn't,  of  course,  have  allowed  anything 
to  stop  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"But  it's  so  obvious.  Now  tell  me  all  about 
yourself.  Who  was  the  man  that  you  called 
George  ?  " 

"  George  Belmont.  He  was  a  banker.  He  was 
a  very  good  friend  of  mine,  until  he  got  angry 
with  me." 

"  All  the  same,  you  were  quite  right  to  refuse  a 
man  who  was  old  enough  to  be  your  grandfather. 
Was  he  much  surprised  that  I  returned  him  the 
sovereign  ?  " 

She  laughed.  "He  was  astounded.  It  made 
the  story  dearest  to  his  heart.  He  told  it  every- 
where. He  dined  out  on  it.  He  made  people  sick 
of  it." 

"  But  won't  you  get  on,  please  ?  I  want  more 
about  yourself." 

"But  really,  is  there  any  reason  why  I  should 
tell  you?" 

"There  is  the  best  reason  in  the  world,    And 


132  STORIES  IN  GREY 

you  shall  hear  it  later.  Let  me  see.  You  fell  ill. 
Go  on,  please." 

And  so  she  told  her  story,  which  was  ordinary 
enough.  She  had  at  one  time  been  very  successful, 
and  had  earned  high  salaries.  She  had  been  im- 
pulsive, generous  and  improvident.  Rheumatic 
fever  has  its  sequelae,  and  she  had  been  ill  and 
unable  to  work  for  a  long  time.  She  considered 
that  she  had  now  entirely  recovered  —  Seaton 
disagreed  with  this — but  she  found  it  difficult  to 
get  back  into  her  profession  again  on  the  old 
basis.  She  had  an  offer  from  one  manager,  but  it 
was  not  very  tempting.  It  was  not  an  offer  that 
he  would  have  ventured  to  make  two  years  before. 
She  was  in  doubt  about  it.  She  still  had  the 
farthing  mascot,  and  though  it  had  not  treated 
her  very  well  lately,  perhaps  after  all  it  would  give 
her  a  last  chance.  It  was  no  longer  a  new  farthing  ; 
it  had  grown  very  dingy. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Seaton,  gravely,  "  if  you  paid  it 
a  little  attention  it  would  reward  you.  You  should 
clean  it.  Wash  it  in  a  twenty-five  per  cent, 
solution  of  sulphuric  acid,  and  polish  with  pumice." 

Again  she  laughed.  "  How  on  earth  do  you 
know  these  things  ?  " 

"  Quite  simple ;  I  work  on  copper  plates  some- 
times. Are  you  going  to  give  me  any  tea  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am." 

"Then  I  think  I'll  step  out  to  the  telephone 
office  first." 

"  Something  you've  forgotten  ?  " 

"  I  sent  my  car  back.     I  want  it  to  return  here 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  133 

at  seven,  to  take  us  both  to  dine  in  town.  After- 
wards we  can  go  to  the  theatre,  or  we  can  talk. 
Just  as  you  like." 

"But,  you  amazing  person,  you  haven't  even 
asked  me  if  I'll  go  yet.  I  don't  think  I  ought  to, 
and  I  don't  believe  I've  got  a  dress." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have.  And  you  simply  must 
come.  Do  you  think,  when  I've  found  you  after 
ten  years,  that  I'm  going  to  let  you  go  again  ? 
Never  !  I  won't  hear  of  it.  Ah,  here's  the  tea  !  " 

After  tea  they  cleaned  the  farthing  mascot,  and 
brought  it  to  a  great  state  of  perfection,  without 
using  either  sulphuric  acid  or  pumice.  As  they 
did  so  they  talked  eagerly,  in  close  proximity. 
When  the  motor-car  arrived  Margaret  Gaye  was 
quite  ready. 

As  he  was  driving  her  back  to  her  house  that 
night,  she  mentioned  once  more  the  engagement 
which  had  been  offered  her.  "  It's  not  what  I  like, 
but  I  think  I  should  accept  it,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  wish  my  wife  to  be  on  the 
stage." 

She  was  astounded.  He  explained  further,  and 
with  considerable  eloquence.  As  he  kissed  her 
when  they  said  good-night,  it  is  probable  that  she 
was  convinced. 


HER  PEOPLE 

I 

"  NOT  got  your  car  here  to-night,  Miss  Urwen  ?  " 
asked  Mr  Fielding. 

"  It  was  here,"  said  Lydia.  "  I  sent  my  maid 
back  in  it  with  the  floral  tributes." 

"That's  you  all  over,"  said  Mr  Fielding,  with 
enthusiasm.  "  Any  other  woman  would  have  kept 
her  car  for  herself,  and  sent  her  maid  back  in  a 
taxi." 

"  My  driver's  been  up  late  three  nights  running 
now.  That  was  why  I  didn't  let  him  wait.  I 
expect  my  bouquets  were  getting  rather  thirsty  too." 

"You  love  flowers?"  said  Mr  Fielding.  He 
still  lingered  at  the  door  of  the  taxi-cab.  A  kind 
old  man,  but  he  bored  the  great  violinist  extremely. 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  like  to  be  suffocated  by  them. 
So  I  let  poor  Stamford  be  suffocated  by  them 
instead.  Good-night,  Mr  Fielding.  Thanks  so 
much." 

"  Mayn't  I  see  you  home  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  !  Certainly  not,"  said  Lydia,  laughing. 
"  But  thank  you  again." 

"  Bore ! "  she  exclaimed  with  conviction  as  the 
cab  passed  down  Regent  Street.  Presently  she 
picked  up  the  communication  tube  and  spoke  to 
the  driver.  He  had  been  given  her  home  address 

134 


HER  PEOPLE  135 

away  in  South  Kensington.  She  now  directed 
him  to  stop  at  the  next  corner  on  the  near  side. 
A  big  private  car  was  waiting  here.  She  dismissed 
her  cab  and  overpaid  the  driver.  She  always 
overpaid  everybody.  The  door  of  the  private  car 
stood  open  now,  and  the  young  man  who  had 
emerged  from  it  raised  his  hat  to  her. 

"  I've  not  kept  you  waiting  ?  "  she  said,  smiling. 
"  Old  Fielding  would  cling  on  to  me  and  talk." 

"  Poor  old  Fielding ! "  said  the  young  man. 
"Get  in,  won't  you?  No,  you've  not  kept  me 
waiting." 

The  car  moved  slowly  on  through  the  heavy 
traffic.  For  a  few  seconds  they  sat  in  silence. 
Then  he  took  her  hands  and  kissed  them. 

"You're  a  darling,"  he  said,  "and  you  played 
divinely  to-night." 

"  It's  a  very  good  thing  that  you're  so  fond  of 
music,"  she  said.  "  But  it's  a  still  better  thing  that 
you  don't  know  too  much  about  it.  In  that  last 
movement — well,  I  was  rather  glad  the  maestro 
wasn't  there.  He  wouldn't  have  told  me  that  I 
played  divinely.  It  is  quite  probable  that  he 
would  have  sworn  at  me." 

"  The  pig  ! "  said  the  man. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that.      I  adore  him,  you  know." 

"  Do  you  adore  me  more  ?  " 

"I  shan't  tell  you  anything  about  it." 

"  Why  couldn't  I  come  straight  to  the  Queen's 
Hall  for  you  to-night  ?  Was  it  simply  the  feminine 
desire  for  mystery  and  romance  ?  " 

"  Oh,    dear,    no !      One    must    avoid    scandal. 


136  STORIES  IN  GREY 

That's  all.  Most  people  there  know  your  car  and 
your  liveries.  Mr  Fielding  knows  that  you  are  a 
married  man  and  I  am  an  unmarried  woman. 
He  would  come  to  conclusions." 

"  I  suppose  he  has  to  know  the  truth  sooner  or 
later." 

"  His  conclusions  would  not  be  the  truth.  When 
the  time  comes — when  I  give  myself  to  you — then 
he  may  know  everything.  I  shall  never  see  him 
again  then.  I  shall  never  see  England  again." 

"  You  give  up  too  much  for  me.  Your  career, 
your  reputation,  everything." 

"  I  want  to  give  up  everything  for  you." 

"Two  weeks  longer  to  wait.  How  long  two 
weeks  can  be ! " 

"  But  after  that  our  lives  are  in  front  of  us." 

As  the  car  stopped  before  her  house  he  kissed 
her  on  the  mouth.  She  got  out  and  ran  up  the 
steps.  She  waited  there  till  the  car  was  out  of 
sight.  Then  she  opened  the  door  with  the  little 
gold  key  that  hung  from  her  wrist. 


II 

IT  has  happened  that  a  horse  taken  out  of  the 
shafts  of  a  cab  has  subsequently  won  a  classic  race. 
Genius  has  no  pedigree.  Mr  Urwen  was  a  fairly 
prosperous  grocer  and  provision  merchant  at 
Helmstone.  His  wife  was  kindly  and  apologetic. 
Neither  of  them  had  been  greatly  endowed  by 
nature.  Not  one  of  the  other  children  soared  far 


HER  PEOPLE  137 

above  the  commonplace.  Lydia  was  the  star  of 
the  family.  She  reverted  to  some  long- forgotten 
ancestor.  Almost  her  earliest  recollection  was  one 
of  grief  and  tears  because  the  piano  was  out  of 
tune. 

Musical  genius  has  very  little  chance  nowadays 
of  remaining  in  obscurity.  Lydia's  first  teacher 
spoke  to  the  leader  of  the  orchestra  at  Helmstone. 
The  leader  of  the  orchestra  sniffed  and  was  superior, 
but  said  he  would  hear  the  kid.  After  he  had 
heard  the  kid  he  passed  the  news  a  little  further 
up  the  great  staircase,  and  an  elderly  gentleman  in 
a  fur  coat — Mr  Fielding,  to  be  precise — came  down 
from  London.  Mr  Fielding  talked  to  Mr  Urwen, 
and  it  was  all  settled. 

Lydia  received  most  of  her  musical  education 
abroad.  Now  that  she  was  in  the  front  rank  of 
violinists  she  had  perforce  to  travel  much.  A  part 
of  the  year  she  was  at  her  own  house  at  South 
Kensington.  Very  seldom  was  she  at  home.  Her 
visits  were  great  occasions.  She  came  laden  with 
presents  and  with  glory,  and  the  family  made  no 
attempt  to  conceal  their  inordinate  pride  in  her. 
When  Lydia  was  expected,  the  piano-tuner  was 
summoned,  and  the  man  with  the  mechanical  piano, 
who  played  waltzes  in  the  drive  of  The  Elms — 
Mr  Urwen's  private  residence — was  instructed  to 
discontinue  himself  until  further  notice.  Mrs 
Urwen  consulted  a  little  note-book,  in  which  she 
had  written  down  every  preference  that  Lydia  had 
ever  expressed. 

The  two  weeks,  which  to  one  man  were  to  seem 


138  STORIES  IN  GREY 

so  long,  were  drawing  to  an  end.  Lydia  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  spend  her  last  three  days  in  her 
old  home.  She  did  not  mean  to  tell  any  of  her 
people  what  her  intentions  were.  She  justified 
herself  to  herself.  She  was  about  to  run  away 
with  a  married  man  ;  but  that  statement  did  not 
tell  all  the  truth.  He  was  married  to  a  woman 
who  was  chronically  ill  and  chronically  ill-tempered 
— a  woman  who  had  told  him  more  than  once  that 
she  wished  he  were  dead.  For  five  years  he  had 
suffered  for  his  mistake,  and  Lydia  felt  that  he  had 
suffered  long  enough.  As  for  herself,  she  had  been 
adored  by  many  people.  Her  appearance  was  of 
a  romantic  type,  and  many  men  had  fallen  under 
her  spell.  She  had  grown  weary  of  this  persistent 
adoration,  just  as  she  had  grown  weary  of  the 
scent  of  too  many  roses  and  of  the  roar  of  applause. 
She  had  never  loved  but  one  man,  and  to  that  one 
man — whatever  the  judgment  of  the  world  might 
be — she  intended  to  give  her  life.  Indeed,  she 
felt  as  if  she  were  now  going  to  begin  life.  All 
that  had  gone  before  had  been  but  a  preparation 
for  this.  She  closed  the  door  on  her  old  self,  said 
good-bye  to  her  own  people  and  went  out,  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  towards  infinite  possibilities. 

She  had  brought  much  luggage  for  a  three  days' 
visit,  but  that  did  not  surprise  her  family.  Lydia 
always  brought  much  luggage.  Clara  said  that 
she  wore  a  new  dress  every  ten  minutes,  and  was 
almost  afraid  to  admire  any  of  them.  If  she 
admired  anything  of  Lydia's,  Lydia  gave  it  her  at 
once. 


HER  PEOPLE  139 

Her  father  and  mother  met  Lydia  at  the  station. 

"  It  takes  a  good  deal,"  he  said,  "  to  get  me  away 
from  my  business  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
but  still  there  are  occasions." 

"  I  wish  there  were  more  of  them,"  said  Mrs 
Urwen.  "  Your  father  does  too  much,  Lydia." 

Certainly,  Lydia  thought,  he  seemed  older  and 
more  worn,  although  he  was  perfectly  cheerful. 

"The  fact  of  the  case  is,"  he  said  to  Lydia, 
"we've  had  to  face  some  serious  competition  of 
late.  One  of  the  big  cut-price  gangs  has  started 
a  branch  not  ten  doors  away  from  my  own  shop. 
For  some  time  I  was  nervous  about  it.  I  met 
each  move  they  made.  I  sold  stuff  for  less  than  it 
cost  me,  sooner  than  be  left  behind." 

"  It's  all  right  now?"  asked  Lydia. 

"  Oh,  yes.  It's  all  right  now.  They  hadn't  got 
the  quality — that's  where  I  had  my  pull.  There's 
plenty  of  room  for  both  of  us  in  Helmstone,  they 
taking  the  low  class,  and  me  taking  the  rest.  We 
came  to  an  arrangement.  Yes,  we're  quite  on 
good  terms  now.  If  I  meet  their  manager  in  the 
street  we  always  have  a  chat  together.  They 
aren't  bad  people  at  all  for  a  low-class  trade." 

"  I  wish  you  were  out  of  business  altogether," 
said  Lydia.  "You've  done  enough.  You  ought 
to  take  a  rest." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr  Urwen.  "That's  what  your 
mother  said.  But  we're  not  so  rich  as  all  that.  It 
may  come,  one  of  these  days." 

Two  of  Lydia's  sisters,  Clara  and  Ruth,  and 
Lydia's  youngest  brother,  Bill,  were  at  home.  Her 


140  STORIES  IN  GREY 

two  other  brothers  were  away  at  a  public  school, 
and  her  other  sister,  Catherine,  was  giving  cooking 
demonstrations  at  a  domestic  training  college.  Mrs 
Urwen  gave  a  favourable  report  of  all  the  absentees. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lydia's  father,  "  all  my  children  are 
good,  and  one  of  them  is  famous.  I  don't  want  to 
boast,  but  upon  my  word  I  might." 

The  three  days  passed  very  quietly.  The  pro- 
vinciality and  narrowness  of  her  people  impressed 
Lydia  much  less  than  their  goodness.  Their  un- 
bounded faith  in  her  touched  her.  Clara  and  Ruth 
were  absolutely  without  any  jealousy.  They  did 
not  merely  accept  the  fact  that  Lydia  was  brilliant, 
and  they  themselves  not.  They  rejoiced  and 
gloried  in  her  superiority. 

"But,"  said  Lydia  to  Ruth  one  day,  "you 
mustn't  exaggerate  about  me,  or  you'll  make  people 
laugh  at  me.  I  didn't  invent  the  fiddle,  you  know." 

"That's  almost  what  it  comes  to,"  said  Ruth. 
"  You  show  people  what  can  be  done  with  it." 

"  There  have  been  a  few  others,"  said  Lydia, 
laughing.  "  Kubelik  isn't  bad  for  a  beginner." 

Her  small  brother  rather  amused  Lydia.  He 
was  an  extremely  grave  and  reserved  boy.  He 
considered  any  demonstration  of  affection  to  be 
unmanly.  He  told  Lydia  solemnly  that  he  was 
pleased  to  see  her.  Later  he  admitted  that  he  had 
changed  the  name  of  one  of  his  rabbits,  and  had 
changed  it  in  Lydia's  favour.  Mrs  Urwen  had  to  re- 
monstrate mildly  with  Lydia  about  Bill.  He  really 
ought  not  to  have  so  much  money  to  spend.  He 
was  too  young. 


HER  PEOPLE  141 

If  Mrs  Urwen  felt  any  uneasiness  at  all  on 
Lydia's  account,  it  was  because  of  her  extravagance 
in  the  matter  of  presents.  She  rained  presents 
upon  the  entire  family.  She  sent  hampers  of 
presents  to  the  boys  at  the  public  school.  She 
sent  a  travelling-bag  of  great  luxury  to  the  demon- 
strator of  cookery.  She  showed  the  utmost  in 
genuity  at  discovering  things  which  her  father 
and  mother  might  possibly  want,  and  great  celerity 
in  procuring  them. 

"And   when   shall   we   see  you   again?"    they 
asked  when  it  was  time  for  her  to  go. 

"  Soon,"  said  Lydia.     "  Very  soon." 


Ill 

THE  young  man  drove  up  to  the  little  junction,  left 
his  magnificent  car  in  the  station-yard,  and  went  to 
meet  the  local  train  from  Helmstone.  It  was  late  and 
leisurely,  as  usual.  Lydia  did  not  travel  with  her 
maid  when  she  went  down  to  Helmstone,  and  for 
a  few  minutes  the  man  was  busy  with  luggage. 

"  I've  got  the  car  outside,"  he  said. 

"  Why  ? "  said  Lydia.  "  You  had  my  letter  this 
morning,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"Yes.  But  I  can't  leave  it  like  that.  Don't 
you  see  that  I  can't  possibly  do  without  you  now  ? 
You  must  come  with  me.  You  belong  to  me." 

He  turned  to  a  porter  to  give  a  direction  about 
the  luggage,  but  Lydia  forestalled  him. 

"  All  those  things  in  the  London  express.  How 
long  have  I  to  wait?" 


142  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"Twenty  minutes,  m'lady.  Should  have  been 
more,  but  the  local's  a  little  after  her  usual  time." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Lydia.  "  Look  after  all  these 
things  for  me.  I  have  a  carriage  reserved  for  me 
on  the  train.  The  name's  the  same  as  on  the 
luggage.  You'll  find  it  when  the  train  comes  in." 

"I'll  see  to  all  that,  m'lady.  There  shan't  be 
any  mistake." 

He  was  not  a  man  of  great  intelligence,  but  he 
had  a  fine  flair  for  potential  generosity.  Ladies 
who  reserved  first-class  carriages  for  themselves 
could  afford  to  be  generous,  and  the  porter  believed 
the  application  of  a  courtesy  title  to  be  soothing 
and  emollient.  He  had  already  addressed  the 
young  man  as  Captain. 

Lydia  now  turned  to  the  young  man. 

"  I  can  give  you  twenty  minutes,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  want  twenty  minutes.  I  want  the 
whole  of  your  life." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Then,  if  you  don't  care  to  talk  until  the  train 
comes  in,  I  won't  keep  you.  You  said  your  car 
was  waiting  outside,  I  think." 

"Will  you  come  in  here?"  he  said  sulkily, 
opening  the  door  of  a  waiting-room.  And  before 
the  fire  in  the  dingy  waiting-room  they  sat  on 
uncomfortable  chairs  and  talked. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  young  man,  "I've  done 
something  you  don't  like.  I  don't  know  what  it 
is,  and  you  don't  tell  me  in  your  letter.  Tell  me 
now.  I  apologize  in  advance.  Surely  it  must  be 
something  that  I  can  put  right  again." 


HER  PEOPLE  143 

"  No,  it's  not  that,"  said  Lydia. 

"  Then  you  have  ceased  to  care  for  me." 

"  I  shall  never  cease  to  care  for  you,"  said  Lydia 
simply  and  with  conviction. 

"Then  you  must  come  with  me  now.  Think 
no  more  about  it,  but  come.  You  had  quite  made 
up  your  mind,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  had.  I  have  changed  it  again,  and  for 
the  last  time." 

"  Why  ?     Tell  me  at  least  why." 

"  I  tried  to  tell  you  in  my  letter.  But  I  suppose 
I'm  not  so  good  at  writing  as  I  am  at  playing  the 
fiddle.  It's — it's  almost  a  matter  of  business." 

"Business?  What  do  you  mean?  What  has 
business  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  One  may  pay  too  much  for  anything.  I  should 
have  to  pay  for  my  happiness  with  the  misery  of 
other  people.  It  is  like  paying  for  it  with  stolen 
money,  and  with  money  stolen  from  those  who 
are  very  dear  to  me." 

"  Your  people  would  understand  in  time.  And 
when  they  understood  they  would  forgive." 

"  You  don't  know  my  people  at  all.  It  is  quite 
certain  they  would  forgive.  1 1  is  equally  certain  that 
they  would  never  understand.  I  do  not  wish  them 
to  have  to  forgive." 

"  What  is  it  you  mean  to  do,  then  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  back  to  London  to-night.  I  have 
had  an  extremely  good  offer  for  an  American 
tour.  It  was  forwarded  to  me  this  morning.  To- 
morrow I  shall  see  my  agent  about  it.  I  am  going 
to  accept  that  offer.  I  shall  be  away  for  six 


144 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


months,    and    I    shall     make    a    great     deal    of 
money." 

"What  do  you  want  to  make  a  great  deal  of 
money  for?  You  know  that  I  hate  the  idea  of 
your  making  money  on  the  concert  platform. 
And,  as  it  happens,  there  is  not  the  least  necessity 
for  it.  If  you  come  with  me — " 

She  tapped  the  floor  with  her  foot  impatiently. 

"  Must  I  keep  on  repeating  it  ?  I  am  not  going 
away  with  you.  In  future  you  have  my  friendship, 
if  you  will  accept  it.  But  until  you  are  a  free  man 
you  can  have  nothing  else.  I  am  sorry  if  I  hurt 
you,  but  remember  that  I  hurt  myself  too.  It  is 
better  than  hurting  so  many  other  people.  I  am 
not  going  to  make  this  money  entirely  for  myself." 

Her  last  words  were  drowned  by  the  roar  of  the 
express  as  it  entered  the  station.  She  had  to 
repeat  them. 

"  Why,  then  ?  "  the  young  man  asked. 

"  My  father  is  growing  old.  He  seems  to  have 
grown  much  older  in  this  last  year,  and — " 

The  door  of  the  waiting-room  opened. 

"  Don't  want  to  'urry  you,  my  lady,"  said  the 
porter.  "  But  everything's  in,  and  you've  only  two 
minutes.  Will  the  gentleman  be  coming  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Lydia. 

The  young  man  followed  her  to  her  carriage. 
They  reached  it  only  just  in  time.  The  porter 
noted  a  certain  formality  in  their  farewell  hand- 
shake. It  did  not  distress  him.  He  had  just 
received  half-a-crown  for  two  pennyworth  of  work, 
and  was  quite  satisfied. 


ROSE  ROSE 

SEF TON  stepped  back  from  his  picture.  "  Rest 
now,  please,"  he  said. 

Miss  Rose  Rose,  his  model,  threw  the  striped 
blanket  around  her,  stepped  down  from  the  throne, 
and  crossed  the  studio.  She  seated  herself  on  the 
floor  near  the  big  stove.  For  a  few  moments 
Sefton  stood  motionless,  looking  critically  at  his 
work.  Then  he  laid  down  his  palette  and  brushes 
and  began  to  roll  a  cigarette.  He  was  a  man  of 
forty,  thick  -  set,  round  -  faced,  with  a  reddish 
moustache  turned  fiercely  upwards.  He  flung 
himself  down  in  an  easy  -  chair,  and  smoked  in 
silence  till  silence  seemed  ungracious. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  the  place  hot  enough 
for  you  to-day,  Miss  Rose." 

"  You  'ave  indeed,"  said  Miss  Rose. 

"  I  bet  it's  nearer  eighty  than  seventy." 

The  cigarette-smoke  made  a  blue  haze  in  the 
hot,  heavy  air.  He  watched  it  undulating,  curving, 
melting. 

As  he  watched  it  Miss  Rose  continued  her 
observations.  The  trouble  with  these  studios  was 
the  draughts.  With  a  strong  east  wind,  same  as 
yesterday,  you  might  have  the  stove  red-hot,  and 
yet  never  get  the  place,  so  to  speak,  warm.  It  is 
possible  to  talk  commonly  without  talking  like  a 

K  145 


146  STORIES  IN  GREY 

coster,  and  Miss  Rose  achieved  it.  She  did  not 
always  neglect  the  aspirate.  She  never  quite 
substituted  the  third  vowel  for  the  first.  She 
rather  enjoyed  long  words. 

She  was  beautiful  from  the  crown  of  her  head  to 
the  sole  of  her  foot ;  and  few  models  have  good 
feet.  Every  pose  she  took  was  graceful.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  a  model,  and  had  been  herself  a 
model  from  childhood.  In  consequence,  she  knew 
her  work  well  and  did  it  well.  On  one  occasion, 
when  sitting  for  the  great  Merion,  she  had  kept 
the  same  pose,  without  a  rest,  for  three  consecutive 
hours.  She  was  proud  of  that.  Naturally  she 
stood  in  the  first  rank  among  models,  was  most  in 
demand,  and  made  the  most  money.  Her  fault 
was  that  she  was  slightly  capricious  ;  you  could 
not  absolutely  depend  upon  her.  On  a  wintry 
morning,  when  every  hour  of  daylight  was  precious, 
she  might  keep  her  appointment,  she  might  be  an 
hour  or  two  late,  or  she  might  stay  away  altogether. 
Merion  himself  had  suffered  from  her,  had  sworn 
never  to  employ  her  again,  and  had  gone  back  to 
her. 

Sefton,  as  he  watched  the  blue  smoke,  found 
that  her  common  accent  jarred  on  him.  It  even 
seemed  to  make  it  more  difficult  for  him  to  get  the 
right  presentation  of  the  "  Aphrodite "  that  she 
was  helping  him  to  paint.  One  seemed  to 
demand  a  poetical  and  cultured  soul  in  so 
beautiful  a  body.  Rose  Rose  was  not  poetical  nor 
cultured ;  she  was  not  even  business-like  and 
educated. 


ROSE  ROSE  147 

Half  an  hour  of  silent  and  strenuous  work 
followed.  Then  Sefton  growled  that  he  could 
not  see  any  longer. 

"We'll  stop  for  to-day,"  he  said.  Miss  Rose 
Rose  retired  behind  the  screen.  Sefton  opened 
a  window  and  both  ventilators,  and  rolled  another 
cigarette.  The  studio  became  rapidly  cooler. 

"  To-morrow,  at  nine  ?  "  he  called  out. 

"  I've  got  some  way  to  come,"  came  the  voice  of 
Miss  Rose  from  behind  the  screen.  "  I  could  be 
here  by  a  quarter  past." 

"  Right,"  said  Sefton,  as  he  slipped  on  his  coat. 

When  Rose  Rose  emerged  from  the  screen  she 
was  dressed  in  a  blue  serge  costume,  with  a 
picture-hat.  As  it  was  her  business  in  life  to  be 
beautiful,  she  never  wore  corsets,  high  heels,  nor 
pointed  toes.  Such  abnegation  is  rare  among 
models. 

"  I  say,  Mr  Sefton,"  said  Rose,  "  you  were  to 
settle  at  the  end  of  the  sittings,  but — " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  want  any  money,  Miss  Rose. 
You're  known  to  be  rich." 

"Well,  what  I've  got  is  in  the  Post  Office, 
and  I  don't  want  to  touch  it.  And  I've  got  some 
shopping  I  must  do  before  I  go  home." 

Sefton  pulled  out  his  sovereign-case  hesitatingly. 

"  This  is  all  very  well,  you  know,"  he  said. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,  Mr  Sefton. 
You  think  I  don't  mean  to  come  to  -  morrow. 
That's  all  Mr  Merion,  now,  isn't  it  ?  He's  always 
saying  things  about  me.  I'm  not  going  to  stick 
it.  I'm  going  to  'ave  it  out  with  'im." 


148  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"  He  recommended  you  to  me.  And  I'll  tell 
you  what  he  said,  if  you  won't  repeat  it.  He  said 
that  I  should  be  lucky  if  I  got  you,  and  that  I'd 
better  chain  you  to  the  studio." 

"  And  all  because  I  was  once  late — with  a  good 
reason  for  it,  too.  Besides,  what's  once?  I 
suppose  he  didn't  'appen  to  tell  you  how  often 
he's  kept  me  waiting." 

"Well,  here  you  are,  Miss  Rose.  But  you'll 
really  be  here  in  time  to-morrow,  won't  you? 
Otherwise  the  thing  will  have  got  too  tacky  to 
work  into." 

"  You  needn't  worry  about  that,"  said  Miss  Rose, 
eagerly.  "  I'll  be  here,  whatever  happens,  by  a 
quarter  past  nine.  I'll  be  here  if  I  die  first ! 
There,  is  that  good  enough  for  you  ?  Good  after- 
noon, and  thank  you,  Mr  Sefton." 

"  Good  afternoon,  Miss  Rose.  Let  me  manage 
that  door  for  you — the  key  goes  a  bit  stiffly." 

Sefton  came  back  to  his  picture.  In  spite  of 
Miss  Rose's  vehement  assurances  he  felt  by  no 
means  sure  of  her,  but  it  was  difficult  for  him  to 
refuse  any  woman  anything,  and  impossible  for 
him  to  refuse  to  pay  her  what  he  really  owed. 
He  scrawled  in  charcoal  some  directions  to  the 
charwoman  who  would  come  in  the  morning. 
She  was,  from  his  point  of  view,  a  prize  char- 
woman— one  who  could,  and  did,  wash  brushes 
properly,  one  who  understood  the  stove,  and  would, 
when  required,  refrain  from  sweeping.  He  picked 
up  his  hat  and  went  out.  He  walked  the  short 
distance  from  his  studio  to  his  bachelor  flat,  looked 


ROSE  ROSE  149 

over  an  evening  paper  as  he  drank  his  tea,  and 
then  changed  his  clothes  and  took  a  cab  to  the 
club  for  dinner.  He  played  one  game  of  billiards 
after  dinner,  and  then  went  home.  His  picture 
was  very  much  in  his  mind.  He  wanted  to  be 
up  fairly  early  in  the  morning,  and  he  went  to 
bed  early. 

He  was  at  his  studio  by  half-past  eight.  The 
stove  was  lighted,  and  he  piled  more  coke  on  it. 
His  "  Aphrodite "  seemed  to  have  a  somewhat 
mocking  expression.  It  was  a  little,  technical 
thing,  to  be  corrected  easily.  He  set  his  palette 
and  selected  his  brushes.  An  attempt  to  roll  a 
cigarette  revealed  the  fact  that  his  pouch  was 
empty.  It  still  wanted  a  few  minutes  to  nine. 
He  would  have  time  to  go  up  to  the  tobacconist 
at  the  corner.  In  case  Rose  Rose  arrived  while 
he  was  away,  he  left  the  studio  door  open.  The 
tobacconist  was  also  a  newsagent,  and  he  bought  a 
morning  paper.  Rose  would  probably  be  twenty 
minutes  late  at  the  least,  and  this  would  be  some- 
thing to  occupy  him. 

But  on  his  return  he  found  his  model  already 
stepping  on  to  the  throne. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Rose.  You're  a  lady  of 
your  word."  He  hardly  heeded  the  murmur  which 
came  to  him  as  a  reply.  He  threw  his  cigarette 
into  the  stove,  picked  up  his  palette,  and  got  on 
excellently.  The  work  was  absorbing.  For  some 
time  he  thought  of  nothing  else.  There  was  no 
relaxing  on  the  part  of  the  model — no  sign  of 
fatigue.  He  had  been  working  for  over  an  hour, 


150 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


when  his  conscience  smote  him.  "  We'll  have  a 
rest  now,  Miss  Rose,"  he  said  cheerily.  At  the 
same  moment  he  felt  human  fingers  drawn  lightly 
across  the  back  of  his  neck,  just  above  the  collar. 
He  turned  round  with  a  sudden  start.  There  was 
nobody  there.  He  turned  back  again  to  the 
throne.  Rose  Rose  had  vanished. 

With  the  utmost  care  and  deliberation  he  put 
down  his  palette  and  brushes.  He  said  in  a  loud 
voice,  "Where  are  you,  Miss  Rose?"  For  a 
moment  or  two  silence  hung  in  the  hot  air  of 
the  studio. 

He  repeated  his  question  and  got  no  answer. 
Then  he  stepped  behind  the  screen,  and  suddenly 
the  most  terrible  thing  in  his  life  happened  to 
him.  He  knew  that  his  model  had  never  been 
there  at  all. 

There  was  only  one  door  out  to  the  back  street 
in  which  his  studio  was  placed,  and  that  door  was 
now  locked.  He  unlocked  it,  put  on  his  hat,  and 
went  out.  For  a  minute  or  two  he  paced  the 
street,  but  he  had  got  to  go  back  to  the  studio. 

He  went  back,  sat  down  in  the  easy-chair,  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  tried  for  a  plausible  explanation. 
Undoubtedly  he  had  been  working  very  hard 
lately.  When  he  had  come  back  from  the 
tobacconist's  to  the  studio  he  had  been  in  the 
state  of  expectant  attention,  and  he  was  enough 
of  a  psychologist  to  know  that  in  that  state  you 
are  especially  likely  to  see  what  you  expect  to 
see.  He  was  not  conscious  of  anything  abnormal 
in  himself.  He  did  not  feel  ill,  or  even  nervous. 


ROSE  ROSE  151 

Nothing  of  the  kind  had  ever  happened  to  him 
before.  The  more  he  considered  the  matter,  the 
more  definite  became  his  state.  He  was 
thoroughly  frightened.  With  a  great  effort  he 
pulled  himself  together  and  picked  up  the  news- 
paper. It  was  certain  that  he  could  do  no  more 
work  for  that  day,  anyhow.  An  ordinary,  common- 
place newspaper  would  restore  him.  Yes,  that 
was  it.  He  had  been  too  much  wrapped  up  in 
the  picture.  He  had  simply  supposed  the  model 
to  be  there. 

He  was  quite  unconvinced,  of  course,  and  merely 
trying  to  convince  himself.  As  an  artist,  he  knew 
that  for  the  last  hour  or  more  he  had  been  getting 
the  most  delicate  modelling  right  from  'the  living 
form  before  him.  But  he  did  his  best,  and  read 
the  newspaper  assiduously.  He  read  of  tariff, 
protection,  and  of  a  new  music-hall  star.  Then 
his  eye  fell  on  a  paragraph  headed  "Motor 
Fatalities." 

He  read  that  Miss  Rose,  an  artist's  model,  had 
been  knocked  down  by  a  car  in  the  Fulham  Road 
about  seven  o'clock  on  the  previous  evening ;  that 
the  owner  of  the  car  had  stopped  and  taken  her  to 
the  hospital,  and  that  she  had  expired  within  a 
few  minutes  of  admission. 

He  rose  from  his  place  and  opened  a  large  pocket- 
knife.  There  was  a  strong  impulse  upon  him,  and 
he  felt  it  to  be  a  mad  impulse,  to  slash  the  canvas 
to  rags.  He  stopped  before  the  picture.  The  face 
smiled  at  him  with  a  sweetness  that  was  scarcely 
earthly. 


152  STORIES  IN  GREY 

He  went  back  to  his  chair  again.  "I'm  not 
used  to  this  kind  of  thing,"  he  said  aloud.  A 
board  creaked  at  the  far  end  of  the  studio.  He 
jumped  up  with  a  start  of  horror.  A  few  minutes 
later  he  had  left  the  studio,  and  locked  the  door 
behind  him.  His  common  sense  was  still  with 
him.  He  ought  to  go  to  a  specialist.  But  the 
picture — 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Sefton  ? "  said  Devigne 
one  night  at  the  club  after  dinner. 

"  Don't  know  that  anything's  the  matter  with 
him,"  said  Merion.  "  He  hasn't  been  here  lately." 

"  I  saw  him  the  last  time  he  was  here,  and  he 
seemed  pretty  queer.  Wanted  to  let  me  his 
studio." 

"  It's  not  a  bad  studio,"  said  Merion,  dispassion- 
ately. 

"  He's  got  rid  of  it  now,  anyhow.  He's  got  a 
studio  out  at  Richmond,  and  the  deuce  of  a  lot 
of  time  he  must  waste  getting  there  and  back. 
Besides,  what  does  he  do  about  models?" 

"  That's  a  point  I've  been  wondering  about 
myself,"  said  Merion.  "  He'd  got  Rose  Rose  for 
his  '  Aphrodite,'  and  it  looked  as  if  it  might  be 
a  pretty  good  thing  when  I  saw  it.  But,  as  you 
know,  she  died.  She  was  troublesome  in  some 
ways,  but,  taking  her  all  round,  I  don't  know 
where  to  find  anybody  as  good  to-day.  What's 
Sefton  doing  about  it  ?  " 

"  He  hasn't  got  a  model  at  all  at  present.  I 
know  that  for  a  fact,  because  I  asked  him." 


ROSE  ROSE  153 

"Well,"  said  Merion,  "he  may  have  got  the 
thing  on  further  than  I  thought  he  would  in  the 
time.  Some  chaps  can  work  from  memory  all 
right,  though  I  can't  do  it  myself.  He's  not 
chucked  the  picture,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he's  not  done  that.  In  fact,  the  picture's 
his  excuse  now,  if  you  want  him  to  go  anywhere 
and  do  anything.  But  that's  not  it :  the  chap's 
altogether  changed.  He  used  to  be  a  genial  sort 
of  bounder — bit  tyrannical  in  his  manner,  perhaps 
— thought  he  knew  everything.  Still,  you  could 
talk  to  him.  He  was  sociable.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  did  know  a  good  deal.  Now  it's  quite  different. 
If  you  ever  do  see  him — and  that's  not  often — 
he's  got  nothing  to  say  to  you.  He's  just  going 
back  to  his  work.  That  sort  of  thing." 

"  You're  too  imaginative,"  said  Merion.  "  I 
never  knew  a  man  who  varied  less  than  Sefton. 
Give  me  his  address,  will  you  ?  I  mean  his  studio. 
I'll  go  and  look  him  up  one  morning.  I  should 
like  to  see  how  that  '  Aphrodite's '  getting  on.  I 
tell  you  it  was  promising ;  no  nonsense  about  it." 

One  sunny  morning  Merion  knocked  at  the  door 
of  the  studio  at  Richmond.  He  heard  the  sound 
of  footsteps  crossing  the  studio,  then  Sefton's 
voice  rang  out. 

"  Who's  there  ? " 

"Merion.  I've  travelled  miles  to  see  the  thing 
you  call  a  picture." 

"  I've  got  a  model." 

"  And  what  does  that  matter  ? "  asked  Merion. 


154  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"  Well,  I'd  be  awfully  glad  if  you'd  come  back  in 
an  hour.  We'd  have  lunch  together  somewhere." 

"  Right,"  said  Merion,  sardonically.  "  I'll  come 
back  in  about  seven  million  hours.  Wait  for  me." 

He  went  back  to  London  and  his  own  studio  in 
a  state  of  fury.  Sefton  had  never  been  a  man  to 
pose.  He  had  never  put  on  side  about  his  work. 
He  was  always  willing  to  show  it  to  old  and 
intimate  friends  whose  judgment  he  could  trust ; 
and  now,  when  the  oldest  of  his  friends  had 
travelled  down  to  Richmond  to  see  him,  he  was 
told  to  come  back  in  an  hour,  and  that  they  might 
then  lunch  together ! 

"  This  lets  me  out,"  said  Merion,  savagely. 

But  he  always  speaks  well  of  Sefton  nowadays. 
He  maintains  that  Sefton's  "Aphrodite"  would 
have  been  a  success  anyhow.  The  suicide  made  a 
good  deal  of  talk  at  the  time,  and  a  special  attend- 
ant was  necessary  to  regulate  the  crowds  round 
it,  when,  as  directed  by  his  will,  the  picture  was 
exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy.  He  was  found 
in  his  studio  many  hours  after  his  death ;  and  he 
had  scrawled  on  a  blank  canvas,  much  as  he  left 
his  directions  to  his  charwoman  :  "  I  have  finished 
it,  but  I  can't  stand  any  more." 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 

I 

JUDITH  SECCOMBE'S  papa  had  white  hair  but  a 
young  heart,  and  a  great  capacity  for  enjoyment 
when  it  could  be  reconciled  with  his  conscience. 

When  he  took  the  house  in  South  Kensington 
he  told  himself  he  did  it  entirely  on  Judith's 
account.  She  was  seventeen.  It  was  necessary 
that  she  should  go  about  and  see  the  world.  She 
must  make  the  acquaintance  of  his  many  friends. 
Judith  whirring  over  the  asphalt,  in  a  taxi-cab, 
thought  of  a  wood  she  knew  where  the  bluebells 
made  one  sheet  of  colour.  But  London  never 
bored  her  father. 

To-night  he  had  been  quite  apologetic.  He  had 
only  been  able  to  procure  one  stall  for  the  first 
night  of  the  Pinero  play.  His  daughter  could  not 
go  to  the  theatre  alone,  but  he  could.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  had  a  guest  in  his  house,  an  old 
friend,  Gilbert  Raynor  by  name.  But  Raynor 
showed  him  that  he  did  not  in  the  least  wish 
to  go  to  the  theatre  and  that  he  did  not  in  the 
least  mind  being  left  alone.  "Judith  and  I  will 
make  some  music,  perhaps." 

So  they  dined  rather  earlier  than  usual,  and 
even  so,  Judith's  papa  had  to  hurry  off  before  the 
coffee  had  been  brought. 

155 


156  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"Isn't  he  wonderful?"  said  Judith.  "He  goes 
to  everything,  he  does  everything,  he  enjoys  every- 
thing. And  I  myself  am  weary  to  death  of  it  all. 
When  one  does  the  same  things  over  and  over 
again,  that  is  not  amusement,  that's  business." 

"Young  people  never  understand  the  en- 
thusiasms of  the  aged.  We  old  people — " 

"  You  are  not  old,"  Judith  interrupted. 

"  Forty-eight,"  said  Raynor,  "  which  is  on  the 
whole  a  little  worse  than  sixty-eight." 

"Numbers  don't  mean  anything,"  said  Judith. 
"  Come  upstairs  and  I'll  play  to  you." 

Presently  Raynor  sat  before  the  fire  in  the  big 
drawing-room  and  listened  to  Beethoven's  E  Minor 
Sonata.  The  room  was  lit  only  by  the  candles  at 
the  piano  and  by  the  glow  of  the  fire. 


II 

MRS  RAYNOR  had  not  accompanied  her  husband 
on  this  visit.  London  was  too  noisy  for  her  and 
the  country  was  too  quiet.  A  provincial  town  on 
the  sea-coast  met  her  requirements.  As  a  rule  it 
met  her  husband's  requirements  as  well.  He  did 
not  care  very  much  where  he  lived.  They  had 
been  married  twenty-four  years,  and  were  the 
parents  of  two  grown-up  sons  who  had  a  passion 
for  being  correct  that  almost  amounted  to  priggish- 
ness.  In  the  inevitable  course  of  nature  and 
circumstance  romance  had  died  both  for  Gilbert 
and  his  wife.  There  was  still  affection.  The 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER          157 

chief  evidence  of  it  on  her  side  was  her  suspicious- 
ness.  Love  leaves  a  deposit  of  jealousy  just  as  a 
river  throws  down  mud. 

Listening  now  to  the  music,  Gilbert  thought 
about  his  family.  About  this  time  of  the  evening 
Harold,  the  younger  son,  who  was  still  at  Oxford, 
would  be  talking  dogmatically  of  his  own  fastidious 
tastes  in  wines.  Frederick,  the  elder  son,  would 
possibly  be  examining  with  care  and  a  magnifying- 
glass  the  objects  dearest  to  his  heart.  He  was  a 
philatelist  and  an  expert.  Mrs  Raynor  would 
either  be  grumbling  at  a  servant  or  reading  a 
novel.  These  two  splendid  occupations  nearly 
filled  her  life. 

It  might  all  very  easily  have  been  so  much 
worse.  Harold  knew  too  much  about  vintages, 
but  he  was  not  intemperate.  Frederick  would  do 
very  well  in  the  bank  in  which  his  father  was  a 
senior  partner.  Mrs  Raynor  had  become  slightly 
shrewish,  but  had  no  other  bad  habits. 

And  it  might  all  very  easily  have  been  so  much 
better.  The  colour  of  life  was  fading  for  him  into 
a  grey  monotone.  There  were  no  more  great 
possibilities.  A  man  of  forty-eight,  so  Gilbert 
reflected,  ought  to  be  very  fond  of  his  dinner. 
There  is  nothing  else  left  of  which  he  can  be  very 
fond. 

His  eyes  fell  on  Judith.  She  was  playing  now 
the  ecstatic  melody  of  the  second  movement,  and 
her  eyes  shimmered  in  the  candle-light  under  dark 
lashes.  He  could  remember  her  as  a  child  of 
eight.  With  a  sudden  impulse  he  got  up  and 


158  STORIES  IN  GREY 

walked  to  the  door.  He  ran  his  hand  over  the 
switches  of  the  electric  light.  White  light  suddenly 
applied  changes  very  often  the  train  of  one's 
thought,  and  his  own  thoughts  were  getting  too 
much  in  tune  with  the  evening,  with  the  firelight, 
with  the  music,  with  the  faint  perfume  of  the  heavy 
drooping  tulips  on  the  mantelpiece.  An  evening 
paper  lying  on  the  table  was  a  further  corrective. 
He  opened  it  at  the  city  intelligence  and  read 
with  care  the  figures  which  showed  him  what 
rubber  and  oil  were  doing.  The  music 
stopped. 

Judith  came  and  stood  beside  him,  leaning  one 
arm  on  the  mantelpiece.  In  this  position  the  loose 
white  sleeves  fell  back.  She  looked  down  at  him, 
and  under  her  gaze  he  moved  uneasily  in  his 
chair.  He  folded  the  newspaper  and  flung  it 
down. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  just  now  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  All  these  lights,  I  mean." 

"  I  wanted,"  he  said,  "  to  see  the  price  of  Shell 
Transport." 

She  walked  to  the  door  and  paused  with  one 
hand  poised  over  the  switches.  "  Do  you  mind  ?  " 
she  said.  "  I  don't  like  very  much  light  to- 
night." 

Again  the  «room  was  lit  only  by  the  glow  of 
the  fire  and  by  the  candles  at  the  piano.  She 
knelt  down  on  the  hearth-rug,  spreading  almost 
transparent  hands  to  the  fire. 

"  What  was  the  price  of  Shell  Transport  ?  "  she 
asked. 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER          159 

The    question   was    unexpected,   and    he   gave 
the  true  answer. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said. 
She  sighed  deeply. 


Ill 


"TAKE  me  away  with  you,"  she  said  suddenly. 
The  tone  of  the  voice  was  serious,  almost  as  if 
she  had  meant  what  she  said. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  he  asked  in  the  same 
tone. 

"  I  don't  think  I  mind  very  much.  I  should 
like  it  to  be  so  far  away  that  it  took  us  days  to 
get  there.  It  must  be  a  lonely  place,  too." 

He  looked  at  her  and  said  nothing,  wondering 
what  was  happening  and  what  might  possibly 
be  going  to  happen. 

Her  voice  shook  a  little  as  she  spoke.  "  Do 
you  love  me  so  very,  very  much  ?  "  she  said. 

It  was  not  till  that  moment  that  he  knew  how 
very,  very  much  he  did  love  her. 

"Why  do  you  think  so?"  he  asked.  "Tell  me 
about  it." 

"  I  know  about  you,"  she  said.  "  Don't  you 
know  about  me,  too  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  you  have  to  tell  me  ?  " 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  walked  a  few  steps 
away  from  him.  Her  back  was  turned  to  him  as 
she  spoke. 

"  I    love  you  very,  very   much,"  she  said.     "  I 


160  STORIES  IN  GREY 

love  you  more  than  all  the  world.  I  know  it's 
wicked  and  I  don't  mind  it.  I  know  I  had  never 
meant  to  say  it,  and  I  have  said  it." 

He  was  a  guest  in  the  house  of  the  girl's  father, 
his  own  old  friend.  About  a  hundred  miles 
further  north  an  elderly,  thin-lipped  lady  (probably 
complaining  at  the  moment  that  the  silver  candle- 
stick that  would  light  her  to  her  rest  had  been 
imperfectly  cleaned)  had  a  sure  claim  upon  him, 
and  had  once  loved  him.  A  smooth-haired  young 
man  (counting  the  perforations  of  a  forged  colonial 
stamp)  had  also  a  right  to  expect  that  his  elderly 
father  should  not  bring  scandal  upon  the  family. 

But  there  was  also  the  girl  Judith  to  think 
about,  standing  trembling  in  the  dim  light  and 
waiting  for  him.  Here  in  this  quiet  room,  at  this 
very  moment,  was,  he  knew,  the  last  chance  of 
poetry  and  of  paradise.  In  a  flash  he  saw  his 
whole  course  clear  in  his  mind.  He  went  to  her, 
put  his  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her  on  the 
mouth.  He  said  nothing.  For  a  moment  or  two 
she  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  And  then 
she  went  back  to  the  fire  again  and  knelt  down 
and  spread  out  her  hands  as  before. 

They  heard  now  the  sharp  burr  of  the  electric 
bell  downstairs.  Judith  smiled  faintly  and 
wanly. 

"  He  has  forgotten  his  latchkey  again,"  she  said. 
"  He  always  forgets  it." 

"  Listen,"  said  Gilbert.  "  This  is  our  good-bye. 
We  can  have  no  more  than  we  have  had.  It  will 
be  a  secret  between  us,  and  I  shall  never  forget 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER          161 

it.  I  am  called  away  on  business  early  to-morrow 
morning.  Do  you  see  ?  " 

She  nodded,  caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it, 
and  went  to  the  piano.  She  began  to  play  once 
more  the  melody  of  the  second  movement. 

The  door  opened  and  Judith's  papa  entered, 
rubbing  his  rather  fat  white  hands  together  and 
looking  pleased  with  the  world. 

"Well,  you  two  people,"  he  said.  "You  have 
missed  a  most  glorious  evening." 


IV 

JUDITH  did  not  appear  at  breakfast  next  morning, 
and  soon  afterwards  Gilbert  Raynor  received  the 
necessary  telegram  and  had  his  bag  packed.  His 
conscience  did  not  trouble  him.  He  felt  more 
at  peace  with  the  world  than  he  had  done  for 
a  long  time  past. 

When,  some  five  years  later,  Judith  married, 
quite  as  well  as  could  have  been  expected,  he  sent 
her  a  little  silver  statuette  by  an  artist  of  great 
repute,  but  did  not  attend  the  ceremony. 

Two  years  afterwards  they  met  in  Paris,  and 
with  a  look  of  clear  innocence  in  her  beautiful 
eyes  she  introduced  him  to  her  husband. 

"Mr  Raynor,  a  very  old  friend  of  my  father's. 
He  used  to  know  me  when  I  was  quite  a  little 
kid." 


THE  DOLL 

I 

"  A  WAX  doll,  please,"  said  the  woman,  and  the  shop- 
man, conjecturing  from  her  appearance  the  amount 
she  would  spend,  showed  her  something  at  two 
shillings. 

Certainly,  Miss  Mordaunt  was  not  wealthy,  and 
did  not  look  wealthy.  Her  dress  was  severely 
plain.  She  might  have  looked  much  prettier  than 
she  did,  for  she  had  fine  eyes  and  beautiful  dark 
hair.  She  would  not  cut  her  hair,  but  she  packed 
it  into  the  smallest  possible  compass,  converting 
the  glory  of  the  woman  into  a  neat,  hard  parcel. 
Her  age  was  thirty-two,  and  she  earned  thirty 
shillings  a  week. 

But  the  two-shilling  doll  did  not  please  her. 

"  Not  made  to  take  off,  I  see,"  she  said  rather 
disdainfully. 

"  No,  miss,"  the  shopman  admitted  ;  "  but  we 
have  a  better  article  here  with  the  removable 
clothing.  Four-and-two  this  one.  A  nice  thing." 
Miss  Mordaunt  took  it  up  tenderly.  She  made  it 
shut  and  open  its  eyes  ;  but  it  did  not  satisfy  her. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "the  — er  —  the  little  girl 
would  prefer  a  larger  one."  Her  hesitation  in  this 
speech  was  due  to  the  fact  that  she  was  unused  to 
deceit.  The  doll  was  not  intended  for  any  little 
girl ;  there  was  no  little  girl  in  the  question. 


THE  DOLL  163 

Finally,  Miss  Mordaunt  (who  made  thirty 
shillings  a  week)  bought  an  eight-shilling  doll. 

"  Practically  a  work  of  art,"  said  the  shopman, 
as  he  folded  soft  paper  about  it  and  packed  it  in 
its  box.  "  A  very  nice  thing  indeed.  Sure  to  give 
pleasure."  Really,  he  seemed  almost  reluctant  to 
part  with  it.  He  tried  to  turn  the  conversation  to 
the  toy  gyroscope  and  the  animated  skeleton, "  an 
ingenious  little  thing."  But  Miss  Mordaunt  said 
gravely  that  she  did  not  require  anything  further. 

She  departed  with  the  doll  in  its  box.  The  box 
had  a  neat  little  loop  of  string  for  her  to  hold  it 
by,  but  she  did  not  use  the  loop.  She  nursed  the 
box  in  the  fold  of  her  arm. 

There  was  much  noise  at  the  corner  of  Totten- 
ham Court  Road.  Motor  omnibuses  banged  and 
rattled,  impatient  to  get  on  with  their  load  of 
home-returning  clerks.  A  cabman  flicked  a  bark- 
ing dog  with  the  end  of  his  whip,  and  the  dog 
howled.  Boys  shouted  "  Football  edition."  There 
was  so  much  noise  that  what  Miss  Mordaunt  said 
to  the  box  on  her  arm  was  quite  inaudible. 

She  said  :  "  Soon  be  home  now,  darling." 

Yet  Miss  Mordaunt  was  not  insane.  Insane 
people  cannot  earn  thirty  shillings  a  week  in  the 
office  of  a  Holborn  cycle  manufacturer,  as  Miss 
Mordaunt  did.  She  had  gone  there  at  eighteen 
shillings  a  week,  and  in  four  years  she  had  made 
this  considerable  advance.  Even  now  the  manager 
considered  that  she  was  well  worth  her  money. 
Mr  Fort,  who  kept  the  books,  said  that  Miss 
Mordaunt  was  "  a  bit  snappy,"  but  he  admired  her, 


164  STORIES  IN  GREY 

The  old  woman  who  cleaned  out  the  office  con- 
sidered that  she  was  "  a  nice-spoken  lady."  James, 
who  took  longer  over  an  errand  than  any  other 
boy  in  London,  said  that  Miss  Mordaunt  was  not 
his  style,  so  far  as  looks  were  concerned,  but  that 
she  was  all  right  so  long  as  you  didn't  start 
monkeying.  Different  people  have  different  ideas 
about  the  same  person,  but  there  would  have  been 
a  unanimous  opinion  that  Miss  Mordaunt  was 
quite  sane,  and  Harley  Street  would  have  endorsed 
that  opinion. 

Yet  Miss  Mordaunt,  aged  thirty-two,  had  just 
bought  an  eight-shilling  doll  for  herself  and  for 
nobody  else. 

Why  ?  She  was  a  woman.  Fate  had  made  her 
a  worker,  the  office  was  making  her  a  machine, 
and  Edith  Stafford  was  trying  to  make  her  a 
fighter.  She  was  all  alone,  and  no  man  loved  her ; 
but  she  was  a  woman,  and  the  very  same  thing 
made  her  buy  that  doll  that  has  made  other  women 
perform  the  greatest  acts  of  courage  and  self- 
sacrifice.  If  you  like  you  may  call  it  the  maternal 
instinct. 

Even  the  purchase  of  a  doll  involved  some  self- 
sacrifice  for  this  woman  with  thirty  shillings  a 
week.  She  lived  in  a  tiny  flat  in  a  back  street, 
and  did  everything  for  herself.  The  flat  consisted 
of  two  small  rooms  and  a  box  of  a  kitchen,  and 
everything  in  it  was  intensely  neat  and  orderly. 
The  little  flat  had  marked  an  advance  ;  at  eighteen 
shillings  a  week  she  had  been  discontented  with  a 
single  room  and  much  discomfort.  But  now — 


THE  DOLL  165 

why,  this  was  her  home,  and  she  had  almost  all 
that  she  wanted,  but  not  quite  all. 

She  lifted  the  doll  out  of  its  box,  kissed  it, 
patted  its  hair,  smoothed  its  clothes,  and  made  it 
sit  down  on  a  chair.  She  said  :  "  You  must  wait 
just  a  few  minutes,  Cynthia.  Be  good." 

She  put  the  box  with  the  other  card-boxes  that 
she  had  kept  because  they  might  be  useful  on  the 
top  of  her  wardrobe ;  she  lit  the  gas-ring  in  the 
kitchen,  and  put  on  the  kettle.  Then  she  prepared 
her  supper.  There  was  a  tinned  tongue  in  the 
cupboard,  and  that  tongue  had  certainly  formed 
part  of  her  intentions  ;  but  if  you  have  been  buying 
eight-shilling  dolls,  you  can  do  very  well  on  cocoa, 
bread,  and  apricot  jam — the  last  being  used  with 
great  restraint.  So  the  tin  remained  unopened. 
We  all  eat  far  too  much,  anyhow.  All  this  while 
Cynthia  had  waited  patiently,  and  had  been  good, 
as  directed ;  but  now  she  was  brought  up  to  the 
table,  and  Miss  Mordaunt  talked  to  her  a  little 
during  the  banquet. 

"Much  nicer  than  that  stuffy  shop,  isn't  it, 
Cynthia  ?  And  what  do  you  think  I  am  going  to 
do  after  supper?  I'm  going  to  make  you  the 
very  doviest  white  silk  nightgown  you  ever  saw. 
You'll  be  quite  a  princess,  and  you  shall  have  a 
little  cot  by  the  side  of  your  mother's  bed,  and  be 
ever  so  happy." 

Miss  Mordaunt  did  not  always  speak  quite  so 
prettily  as  this.  If  she  was  typing  a  letter  at  the 
office  and  the  machine  jibbed,  she  habitually  said 
one  brief  bad  word.  It  always  made  Mr  Fort 


166  STORIES  IN  GREY 

laugh,  and  that  laugh  always  made  Miss  Mordaunt 
very  angry.  She  was  never  angry  with  the  old 
woman  who  cleaned  the  office. 

As  she  worked  at  the  white  silk  nightdress  she 
gave  Cynthia  information  in  a  low  voice.  Miss 
Mordaunt  confessed  that  so  far  she  had  been 
lonely.  She  had  girl-friends,  of  course — plenty  of 
them — but  she  had  always  wanted  a  little  girl  of 
her  own.  She  might  have  bought  a  dog,  but  who 
was  to  look  after  him  while  his  mistress  was  away 
at  work  ?  Cynthia  was  better  than  six  dogs. 

Fortunately  Cynthia  had  permanently  an  ex- 
pression of  pleased  attention,  obliterated  only 
when  you  laid  her  on  her  back  and  by  a  simple 
mechanical  contrivance  her  eyes  closed.  Miss 
Mordaunt  was  explaining  to  Cynthia  what  a  re- 
markably good  time  she  was  going  to  have,  when 
a  light  ripple  of  piano  music  broke  in  on  the  con- 
versation, stopped,  and  then  began  again. 

"Hear  that?"  said  Miss  Mordaunt.  "I'll  tell 
you  what  it  means,  Cynthia.  It  means  that 
they've  let  the  flat  next  door  at  last,  and  that  the 
girl  moved  in  to-day.  We  shall  have  to  come  to 
some  agreement  with  her  about  that  piano.  She 
seems  to  play  very  well,  but  there  must  be  regular 
hours  for  it.  I  can't  hold  a  meeting  of  the 
W.W.L.S.  in  my  rooms  with  that  noise  going  on. 
And  as  I've  got  to  earn  the  bread-and-butter  all 
day  I  can't  afford  to  be  kept  awake  by  a  piano  half 
the  night.  I'll  tackle  the  good  lady  on  the  subject 
before  I  go  to  work  to-morrow.  And  now,  Cynthia, 
we'll  see  how  you  look  in  your  new  nightdress." 


THE  DOLL  i67 

But  for  the  moment  this  operation  had  to  be 
deferred.  There  came  a  sharp  rap  at  the  outer 
door,  and  Cynthia  and  all  that  belonged  to  her 
were  hurriedly  deposited  in  the  bedroom.  Then 
Miss  Mordaunt  admitted  Miss  Edith  Stafford. 

Miss  Stafford  was  tall,  thin,  jerky,  and  plain. 
Her  eyes  peered  bitterly  from  behind  a  gold- 
rimmed  pince-nez.  She  did  not  kiss  Miss  Mordaunt ; 
she  abhorred  all  unhygienic  things,  especially  if 
they  were  at  all  natural.  Cigarettes  were  an 
exception. 

"  Evenin',  Grace,"  said  Miss  Stafford.  "  Looked 
in  to  see  why  you  weren't  at  the  W.W.L.S.  last 
night." 

"  I'd  had  an  awfully  hard  day.  I  didn't  feel  up 
to  it." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Stafford,  taking  a  manly 
pose  in  the  arm-chair,  and  producing  a  leather 
cigarette  case. 

The  W.W.L.S.  was  the  Working  Women's 
Literary  Society.  It  consisted  of  seven  members, 
and  held  fortnightly  meetings.  Had  it  consisted 
of  more  than  seven  they  could  hardly  have  met 
in  Miss  Mordaunt's  sitting-room  when  her  turn 
came  round ;  even  as  it  was,  two  bedroom  chairs 
had  to  be  impressed  for  these  great  occasions. 

"  Nonsense,"  repeated  Miss  Stafford.  "  Women 
are  only  tired  because  they  think  they  are — it's 
one  of  the  ways  in  which  the  ordinary  woman 
makes  herself  ridiculous  and  keeps  back  the  move- 
ment. Still,  you  didn't  miss  much  this  time. 
Margaret  Jackson  lost  her  temper  as  usual. 


168 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


About  Keats.     By  the  way,  she  said  something  to 
me  about  you  afterwards." 
"  Indeed  ?     What  was  it  ?  " 
"  That  man  Fort.    Do  you  mean  to  marry  him  ?  " 
"  Never.     Of  course  not.     Why  ? " 
"  Margaret  Jackson  heard  through  a  friend   of 
hers,  who  knows  Fort's  young  brother,  that  Fort 
said  you  had  been  much  pleasanter  in  your  manner 
of  late." 

"  Then  Mr  Fort  will  change  his  mind  about  that 
to-morrow." 

"  Good,"  said  Edith  Stafford,  with  a  jerk  of  her 
cigarette-hand.  "  This  is  no  time  for  women  to 
marry.  My  word,  if  all  the  pretty  girls  thought 
as  I  do  about  that,  women  would  be  free  within  a 
year.  I'm  glad  you're  with  me  at  any  rate." 

Grace  Mordaunt  blushed  slightly.  She  thought 
that  Mr  Fort  was  common,  uneducated,  and  un- 
prepossessing. But  she  also  thought  that  she 
was  very  lonely.  A  further  irruption  of  music 
spared  her  any  discussion  of  matrimony. 

"  What  a  horrible  row  ! "  said  Miss  Stafford. 

"Yes,"  said  Grace.  "It's  the  girl  next  door. 
I'm  going  to  speak  about  it  to-morrow." 

"  I  should.  One  can  hardly  hear  one's  self  talk. 
Well,  I  only  looked  in  for  two  minutes." 

She  jerked  her  cigarette-end  into  the  fireplace, 
reminded  Miss  Mordaunt  that  it  was  her  turn  to 
entertain  the  W.W.L.S.  at  their  next  meeting,  and 
said  a  brief  good -night. 

When  she  had  gone,  Miss  Mordaunt  undressed 
Cynthia  and  tried  on  the  white  silk  nightgown. 


THE  DOLL  169 

Alterations  were  required  in  the  neck,  and  were 
duly  effected.  Miss  Mordaunt  went  to  sleep  that 
night  with  the  doll  in  her  arms. 


II 

AFTER  breakfast  next  morning  Miss  Mordaunt 
went  to  remonstrate  with  the  girl  next  door  about 
the  piano.  She  meant  to  arrange  it  all  in  a 
friendly  chat — to  point  out  that  there  must  be  a 
certain  amount  of  give-and-take  in  flats. 

The  plan  was  modified  in  its  execution  by  the 
fact  that  there  was  no  girl  next  door.  The 
proprietor  of  the  piano  was  a  man — an  enraged, 
fantastic,  middle-aged,  male  musician,  who  had  a 
fine  flow  of  language,  but  behaved  much  like  a 
distraught  and  irritable  baby. 

His  name  was  Malcolm  Harverson,  and  he  was 
a  musician  and  composer,  as  he  told  her  before 
she  had  got  through  the  first  two  sentences  of 
what  she  had  to  say. 

He  glared  at  her  with  large,  blue  eyes. 

He  ran  his  good,  white  hands  through  his 
excessive  crop  of  fair  hair.  He  gesticulated. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  What  on  earth  do  you 
expect  me  to  do  ?  Do  you  know  I've  been  turned 
out  of  more  flats  than  any  man  in  London  ?  The 
other  tenants  always  combine  against  me.  At 
last  I  thought  I  was  safe.  There  are  no  regula- 
tions whatever  about  piano-playing  in  these  flats — 
not  the  shadow  of  a  ghost  of  a  regulation.  I  was 
jolly  careful  to  find  that  out  before  I  took  this 


170  STORIES  IN  GREY 

dog-kennel,  and  on  the  second  morning  after  my 
arrival  I've  hardly  finished  my  breakfast — beastly 
eggs  that  I  had  to  cook  for  myself  because  I  can't 
find  a  servant — when  a  charmin'  lady  comes  round 
to  tell  me  to  burn  my  Bechstein  and  go  to  the  devil." 

Miss  Mordaunt  resisted  with  some  difficulty  a 
tendency  to  smile  at  this  elderly  child.  "  I  don't 
think  that's  quite  what  I  said,  is  it?  You  can 
play  as  much  as  you  like  until  six  in  the  evening, 
and  some  evenings  you  can  play  from  six  to  ten, 
unless  I  ask  you  not  to,  but  not  after  ten,  because — 

Mr  Malcolm  Harverson  clasped  his  head  with 
both  hands.  "  Oh,  wait  a  minute,  please !  How 
do  you  expect  anybody  to  remember  all  that  ?  I 
can't  get  up  at  six  in  the  morning,  and  as  for 
ten  at  night — why,  there  are  lots  of  days  when  I 
don't  really  begin  to  live  till  ten  at  night.  There 
ought  to  be  a  certain  amount  of  give-and-take  in 
flats" — Miss  Mordaunt  was  slightly  disconcerted 
by  this  phrase,  which  she  had  intended  to  use 
herself — "and  nobody  ever  hears  me  complain. 
There's  a  woman  in  the  flat  over  mine  who  has 
got  a  sewing-machine  in  C  minor.  Perfectly 
beastly.  Yet  I  don't  go  running  round,  as  you 
do,  shouting  to  have  her  crucified." 

Miss  Mordaunt  tried  to  explain  that  she  neither 
ran  nor  shouted.  She  did  not  require  him  to  burn 
his  piano.  She  did  not  want  him  to  be  crucified. 
But  as  she  had  to  rise  early  to  get  the  work  of  her 
flat  done  before  she  went  to  the  office  at  ten — 

"  That  reminds  me,"  said  Mr  Harverson.  The 
way  in  which  he  interrupted  ladies  was  quite 


THE  DOLL  171 

shameless.  "  I  suppose  you  couldn't  tell  me  of 
any  old  woman  who'd  come  in  and  do  the  work 
of  this  flat  for  me.  If  she  arrived  somewhere 
about  eight  in  the  morning,  and  looked  in  again 
in  the  evening  in  the  neighbourhood  of  nine,  that 
would—" 

"  Perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  find  somebody," 
said  Miss  Mordaunt.  "But  that's  not  what  I 
wanted  to  talk  about." 

She  explained  once  more  what  it  was  that  she 
wanted.  He  remained  quite  unsatisfactory.  He 
would  do  his  best,  but  he  didn't  like  to  make  any 
promises  because  (so  he  said)  he  knew  his  limita- 
tions, and  he  might  forget.  By  the  way,  he  hoped 
she  would  not  forget  to  find  that  servant  for  him, 
because  really  things  were  getting  rather  serious. 

Miss  Mordaunt  had  to  hurry  away  in  order  to 
be  punctual  at  her  business.  She  had  two  minutes 
with  Mrs  Fagg,  the  old  woman  who  cleaned  the 
office. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs  Fagg.  "I  could  do  this  Mr 
'Arverson,  if  he  suited  me,  and  the  work  would  fit 
in  nicely.  He's  all  right,  miss,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  But  he's  like  most  men — not 
fit  to  take  care  of  himself." 

"Then  I'll  just  call  on  him  this  morning  and 
judge  for  myself,  saying  as  you  sent  me.  Thank 
you,  in  any  case,  miss." 

Miss  Mordaunt  enjoyed  the  day's  work  which 
followed  more  than  Mr  Fort  did. 

Mr  Fort  was  not  in  the  least  in  love  with  Miss 
Mordaunt,  but  he  had  determined  that  she 


172  STORIES  IN  GREY 

would  be  just  the  right  wife  for  him.  She  was 
good-looking.  She  was  thoroughly  sensible  and 
practical.  A  little  short  in  the  temper — but  Mr 
Fort  recognized  that  he  had  reached  an  age  when 
a  man  must  not  be  too  particular,  and  that  one 
may  have  to  wait  a  long  time  for  absolute  perfec- 
tion. Besides,  once  married,  he  thought  that  he 
could  deal  with  that  shortness  of  temper.  Certainly 
of  late  she  had  been  distinctly  more  civil  to  him. 

Therefore  Mr  Fort  this  morning  adopted  a 
manner  towards  Miss  Mordaunt  which  was 
oleaginous  and  slightly  intimate.  What  Miss 
Mordaunt  said  could  have  been  telegraphed  for 
sixpence,  but  it  was  enough,  metaphorically,  to 
take  the  skin  off  Mr  Fort.  He  observed  to  a 
friend  at  luncheon  that  women  were  queer  cattle. 

A  stream  of  music  greeted  Miss  Mordaunt  that 
night  as  she  came  up  the  stairs.  Mr  Malcolm 
Harverson  was  singing  to  his  own  accompaniment. 
He  had  a  very  fair  baritone  voice,  and  it  had  been 
well  trained.  Above  all,  he  was  an  artist.  Miss 
Mordaunt  was  in  the  mood  for  music,  and  was 
glad  that  Mr  Harverson  had  apparently  forgotten 
her  injunction.  But  the  moment  she  closed  her 
door  the  music  stopped  abruptly.  So  Miss  Mor- 
daunt talked  to  Cynthia  instead.  Cynthia  was 
sitting,  curiously  enough,  just  where  Miss  Mordaunt 
had  left  her  in  the  morning — on  the  cushions  of 
the  one  easy  chair — and  she  still  wore  the  expres- 
sion of  pleased  attention. 

Miss  Mordaunt  said  that  Cynthia  had  behaved 
very  nicely,  and  that  she  was  pleased  to  see  her 


THE  DOLL  173 

again.  Then  she  spoke  about  the  music.  "  It 
would  have  been  more  sensible,  Cynthia,  if  he  had 
just  finished  that  song  and  then  left  off.  Men  are 
always  so  stupidly  literal.  Or  perhaps  he's  turned 
sulky.  I  suppose  you  couldn't  tell  me  if  he's  been 
playing  much  during  the  day." 

She  was  correct.     Cynthia  could  not. 

Miss  Mordaunt  was  opening  that  tinned  tongue 
with  her  accustomed  neatness,  when  she  was  called 
to  the  door.  A  man  asked  if  she  were  Miss 
Mordaunt,  and — assured  on  this  point — delivered 
a  florist's  box  into  her  hands.  It  contained  white 
roses  and  the  card  of  Mr  Malcolm  Harverson.  On 
the  card  was  written  :  "  With  many  thanks  for  the 
much  more  useful  present  you  sent  me  this  morning 
— I  refer  to  Mrs  Fagg." 

Since  he  put  it  like  that  she  felt  that  she  might 
accept  them.  She  loved  flowers,  but  her  expendi- 
ture upon  them  was  of  necessity  limited.  She 
placed  the  white  roses  on  her  supper-table,  and 
invited  Cynthia  to  admire  them.  Then  she  did 
devastating  work  on  that  tinned  tongue — one 
might  almost  have  thought  that  tinned  tongue  did 
not  cost  money,  But  Miss  Mordaunt  was  happy 
and  hungry.  Later  in  the  evening  she  wrote  a 
brief  note  of  thanks  to  Mr  Harverson,  and  she 
made  a  fur  toque  for  Cynthia. 


Ill 

DAYS  passed  away,  and  every  day  Mr  Harverson's 
piano  stopped  dumb  when  Miss  Mordaunt  returned 


174 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


from  her  work  in  the  evening.  It  was  silly  of  him 
to  sulk  in  this  way,  and  she  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  would  tell  him  so.  It  was  only  on  special 
evenings,  which  would  be  indicated  to  him,  that  she 
required  silence  from  six  till  ten.  On  the  other 
evenings  it  would  be  quite  enough  if  the  piano 
stopped  at  ten  or  thereabouts.  The  meeting  of  the 
W.W.L.S.  in  her  rooms  gave  her  an  opportunity. 

Miss  Mordaunt  possessed  just  six  tea-cups,  but 
the  members  of  the  W.W.L.S.  had  the  Words- 
worthian  habit  of  being  seven.  She  was  preparing 
her  room  for  the  meeting  when  she  remembered 
the  necessity  for  one  more  cup.  She  had  meant 
to  acquire  it  during  the  day,  and  had  forgotten 
it.  It  struck  her  now  that  she  might  borrow  a 
tea-cup  from  Mr  Harverson,  and  she  could  at  the 
same  time  explain  to  him  that  she  did  not  hate 
music  so  much  as  he  thought. 

He  showed  no  sign  of  sulkiness  when  he  admitted 
her  to  his  flat.  He  made  her  come  into  his  sitting- 
room  while  he  went  to  find  a  cup  which  was  worthy 
of  being  used  by  a  literary  society.  The  sitting- 
room  was  principally  occupied  by  a  short  grand 
piano  and  many  books.  It  smelled  pleasantly  of 
russia-leather  and  Turkish  cigarettes. 

As  he  came  back  with  the  tea-cup  he  asked 
plaintively  if  there  would  soon  be  an  evening  when 
he  might  play  after  six. 

"  You  might  have  played  any  of  these  evenings. 
It  was  only  on  evenings  when  I  especially  asked 
for  quiet  that  you  were  not  to  play." 

He  sat  down  suddenly  and  nearly  broke  the  tea-cup 


THE  DOLL  175 

"  That's  me,"  he  said.  "  If  I  can  get  anything 
the  wrong  way  round  I  always  do.  I  thought  it 
was  only  on  evenings  when  I  received  a  special 
permission  that  I  was  allowed  to  play.  Of  course, 
I  had  to  do  what  you  wanted — after  all  your 
kindness  in  getting  Mrs  Fagg  for  me;  but  I've 
been  feeling  very  virtuous  and  conceited  about  it. 
Why,  it's  simply  a  case  of  the  10.5  over  again." 

"What  was  that?"  asked  Miss  Mordaunt,  smiling. 

"  I  had  to  go  North  to  a  rehearsal  of  some  stuff 
of  mine.  I  looked  up  a  train,  and  fixed  on  the 
10.5.  That  was  all  right.  But  then  the  thing  that 
I  have  to  use  instead  of  a  mind  switched  the 
figures  round,  and  I  decided  that  it  was  the  5.10  I 
had  to  catch.  I  got  up  very  early,  and  had  no 
time  for  any  breakfast,  and  I  caught  the  5.10.  At 
least,  I  should  have  caught  it  if  it  had  been  there. 
There  wasn't  any  5.10,  of  course.  The  porter  who 
told  me  so  laughed,  and  my  own  cabman  laughed. 
I  wished  I  was  dead." 

Miss  Mordaunt  said  she  was  so  sorry,  but  she 
seemed  rather  amused. 

"  I  can't  understand  it.  I  cannot  understand 
how  anybody  with  the  gift  of  music,  like  you, 
shouldn't  be  able  to  manage  little  practical  things." 

"  Sometimes  I  doubt  if  music  is  a  gift  at  all. 
I'm  inclined  to  think  it's  a  vice.  Anyhow,  it's 
just  those  little  practical  things  which  bowl  me 
over.  I  believe  I  ought  to  advertise  for  an  attend- 
ant— one  of  those  men  in  black  morning-coats 
and  felt  hats  that  take  the  soft-headed  old  gentle- 
men out  for  walks  at  the  health  resorts." 


176  STORIES  IN  GREY 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Mordaunt,  "it's  most  awfully 
kind  of  you  to  have  stopped  playing  on  my  account, 
and  I'm  almost  ashamed  now  that  I  bothered  you 
about  it.  Now  I've  got  the  literary  society,  and  so 
I  can't  ask  you  to  play  to-night." 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  But  I  hope  you'll  play  to-morrow  night  just  as 
much  as  you  like,  and — why,  there's  somebody  at 
my  door.  Good-night,  and  thanks  so  much." 

It  was  Miss  Edith  Stafford  with  a  note-book 
containing  the  minutes  of  the  W.W.L.S.  "  I'm 
early,"  said  Miss  Stafford.  "  Thought  you  might 
want  a  hand  to  get  the  room  ready." 

"  Thanks,  awfully.  Everything's  all  right  now. 
I've  just  been  borrowing  a  tea-cup." 

"Ah!"  said  Miss  Stafford.  "The  girl  next 
door.  I  remember.  Hope  you've  persuaded  her 
to  stop  that  tinkle-box  of  hers  to-night." 

"Yes,  she  won't  play  to-night,"  said  Miss 
Mordaunt,  blushing.  It  has  already  been  observed 
that  Miss  Mordaunt  had  no  natural  tendency 
towards  deceit. 

The  meeting  was  quite  successful.  Miss  Tilbury 
read  a  thoughtful  paper  on  some  obscure  passages 
in  the  work  of  Robert  Browning ;  Miss  Jackson 
animadverted  severely  upon  it ;  Miss  Edith  Stafford 
pointed  out  that  it  was  only  men  who  wrote 
obscurely  :  the  woman  writer  was  always  lucid,  at 
any  rate.  Miss  Tomlin  said  that  this  reminded 
her  of  a  story,  which  she  told.  It  was  quite 
a  good  story,  about  a  lady  who  bred  prize 
Persian  cats,  and  nobody  knew  (or  cared)  how 


THE  DOLL  177 

Miss  Tomlin  came  to  be  reminded  of  it.  Then 
there  was  tea,  and  Miss  Mordaunt  drank  from  a 
blue  cup  that  did  not  match  the  rest  of  the  set. 
Miss  Stafford  asked  her  what  the  girl  next  door 
was  like,  and  Miss  Mordaunt,  blushing,  said  that 
she  did  not  know,  and  changed  the  subject  rapidly. 

Miss  Mordaunt  told  Cynthia  in  bed  that  night 
that  it  had  been  quite  a  pleasant  evening.  She 
also  acquitted  Mr  Harverson  of  sulkiness,  and 
observed  that  he  seemed  to  be  rather  well  off- 
had  good  furniture,  and  took  cabs,  and  that  sort  of 
thing.  To  this  Cynthia  listened  patiently,  but,  from 
the  accident  of  her  position,  with  her  eyes  closed. 

On  the  following  evening  Miss  Mordaunt  had  just 
finished  supper,  and  was  telling  Cynthia  about  some 
further  additions  to  her  wardrobe,  when  the  sound  of 
Mr  Harverson's  piano  interrupted  her.  Miss  Mor- 
daunt listened  with  delight.  At  the  end  of  the  piece 
she  clapped  her  hands  gently  by  way  of  applause. 

Then  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  with 
some  confusion  she  admitted  Mr  Harverson. 

He  stared  round  the  room  with  his  large  blue 
eyes,  and  they  took  in  Cynthia,  whom  Miss  Mor- 
daunt had  forgotten  to  remove. 

But  Mr  Harverson,  who  was  not  more  confused 
than  usual,  said  nothing  whatever  about  the  doll, 
though  Cynthia  was  wearing  the  new  fur  toque 
and  looked  charming.  He  said  that  he  had  over- 
heard the  sound  of  applause,  and  that  if  Miss 
Mordaunt  really  liked  the  music  she  would  hear  it 
better  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  Wouldn't  she 
come  round  with  him  ? 
M 


178  STORIES  IN  GREY 

Miss  Mordaunt  accepted,  a  little  surprised  at 
herself  for  accepting.  She  took  the  one  easy 
chair  in  the  room  that  smelled  of  russia  leather  and 
cigarettes,  and  Mr  Harverson  demanded  what  he 
should  play  for  her. 

"If  you've  got  a  Beethoven  handy,  I'm  fond  of 
the  '  Moonlight  Sonata.'  " 

"  Good  old  *  Moonlight,' "  said  Mr  Harverson,  irre- 
verently. "  All  the  schoolgirls  have  to  go  through 
it  just  like  the  measles.  But,  however — " 

And  without  troubling  to  find  the  music  Mr 
Harverson  sat  down  and  played  the  "  Moonlight 
Sonata,"  and  he  did  not  play  irreverently  at  all. 

"  I  suppose  it's  old-fashioned,"  she  said,  when  he 
had  finished,  "  but  it's  terribly  lovely." 

"Yes,"  said  Harverson,  "Beethoven's  fine.  Of 
course,  if  he'd  had  the  modern  piano  there'd  have 
been  a  difference.  Still — yes,  very  fine.  I  say,  Miss 
Mordaunt,  I  forgot  to  have  any  coffee  after  dinner 
to-night,  and  restaurant  coffee's  rather  rotten,  any- 
how. I  wish  you'd  help  me  to  make  some." 

"  Won't  it  keep  you  awake  ?  " 

"No.  If  I  don't  have  it  I  can't  sleep.  I'm  all 
wrongly  constituted,  and  don't  fit  into  the  text- 
books." 

So  Miss  Mordaunt  helped  him  to  make  coffee, 
and  afterwards  helped  him  to  drink  it.  She  felt  it 
necessary  to  say  that  she  had  not  intended  her 
applause  to  be  overheard. 

"  No,"  cried  Malcolm  Harverson, "  but  these  walls 
are  very  thin.  I  can  even  hear  when  you're  talking 
to  your  little  friend  in  the  evening.  I  can't  hear 


THE  DOLL  179 

what's  said,  of  course,  or  I'd  have  warned  you,  but 
I  catch  the  murmur  of  the  voice." 

"What  little  friend?"  asked  Miss  Mordaunt, 
perturbed. 

"  The  doll,  of  course.  You  do  talk  to  her,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"Y — yes,"  said  Miss  Mordaunt.     "You  see—" 

"  You  needn't  explain,"  said  Harverson.  "  Bless 
you,  I  know.  That  sort  of  thing  is  easy  to  under- 
stand. If  one  didn't  understand  it  one  couldn't 
make  music  properly." 

Harverson  and  Miss  Mordaunt  met  again  the 
next  night,  and  the  next,  and  the  next.  Malcolm 
Harverson  and  Grace  Mordaunt  being  what  they 
were,  the  story  could  have  but  one  ending — a 
happy  ending.  She  was  pleased  that  it  was  not 
until  after  she  had  accepted  him  that  she  read  in 
the  papers  an  account  of  the  Festival,  with  lavish 
and  unusual  praise  for  a  work  by  Malcolm 
Harverson. 

Miss  Edith  Stafford  said  that  she  had  known 
all  along  how  it  would  be,  and  had  seen  it  coming. 
This  prescience  seemed  to  be  some  slight  consola- 
tion to  her. 

IV 

SOME  years  later,  when  the  newspapers  had 
quite  got  into  the  habit  of  speaking  of  Malcolm 
Harverson  as  "  the  eminent  composer,"  Mrs 
Harverson  decided  to  give  her  little  daughter  a 
doll.  She  confessed  that  it  was  not  quite  a  new 


180  STORIES  IN  GREY 

doll :  in  fact,  it  was  one  that  she  had  formerly 
played  with  herself. 

Miss  Cynthia  Harverson,  who  had  not  begun  to 
worry  about  arithmetic,  said  that  she  supposed  in 
that  case  it  would  be  about  a  hundred  years  old. 

"  Getting  on  that  way,"  said  her  mother.  "  But 
it's  got  the  loveliest  clothes  that  I  made  for  it 
myself,  and  it  shuts  its  eyes  when  it  lies  down,  and 
it's  got  the  same  name  as  yourself." 

"  Let's  see,"  said  Miss  Harverson. 

The  doll  and  its  somewhat  elaborate  wardrobe 
were  produced,  and  Miss  Harverson  was  delighted 
with  them.  But  she  put  one  finger  in  her  mouth 
and  sucked  it — the  sure  concomitant  in  her  case 
of  a  mental  process.  Then  she  observed  that  her 
mother  must  have  been  no  end  of  a  child  if  she 
could  make  doll's  clothes  like  that. 

"But  I  was  much  older  than  you  are  when  I 
made  those  clothes,  dear." 

"  How  old  were  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  to  think  about  it — ever  so  much 
older  than  I  am  now." 

They  were  still  busy  about  the  doll  when  Grace 
heard  her  husband  calling  her. 

"  I  say,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  to  send  ten 
shillings  to  a  man  in  Brussels.  How  does  one  do  it  ?  " 

Grace  crossed  the  passage  to  her  husband's 
room.  "Give  me  the  letter  and  the  money,  I'll  do 
it  for  you.  You  haven't  changed  one  little  bit," 
she  said,  laughing. 

Then  she  sat  down,  and  added  seriously,  "I've 
given  Cynthia  the  doll,  and  she's  quite  in  love  with  it." 


TOO  SOON   AND  TOO   LATE 

THE  waiter  placed  before  young  Mr  Haynes  a 
plate  on  which  were  a  few  white  bones,  an  eyeball, 
and  a  piece  of  black  mackintosh. 

"  Turbot,  sir,"  said  the  waiter,  in  an  explanatory 
voice. 

It  was  a  hotel  dinner  in  an  English  cathedral 
city,  and  faithful  to  its  type.  The  green  Venetian 
blinds  were  drawn  down,  and  the  incandescent 
gas  was  shaded  with  pink  paper.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  a  material  that  is  supposed  to  simulate 
Jacobean  oak  panelling ;  it  may  be  acquitted  of 
any  actual  deceit. 

The  room  was  full,  and  at  the  small  tables  were 
many  of  those  middle-aged  or  aged  women  that 
seem  to  haunt  the  provincial  hotels  of  this  country. 
They  are  a  class  by  themselves.  They  wear  brown 
skirts  and  a  totally  different  blouse  in  the  evening, 
and  grandmamma  has  a  grey  woollen  shawl.  They 
speak  in  whispers  and  peck  patiently  any  odds 
and  ends  that  the  waiter  gives  them.  They  have 
an  air  of  defective  vitality  and  chronic  discontent. 
They  nearly  all  suffer  from  catarrh  and  use 
eucalyptus  on  their  handkerchiefs.  Observe,  too, 
their  surreptitiousness.  When  the  elderly  lady, 
hand  to  mouth  and  eyes  glazed  with  terror,  has 
given  the  waiter  an  order,  so  hushed  as  to  be 

almost  inaudible,  and  then  proceeds  to  build  up 

181 


182  STORIES  IN  GREY 

a  screen  at  her  right  hand  with  the  wine-list  and 
cruet-stand,  you  may  be  pretty  certain  that  there 
will  presently  be  a  little  weak  whisky  -  and  -  soda 
on  the  far  side  of  the  entanglement. 

There  were  two  waiters  in  the  room.  The  elder 
of  them  was  English,  had  been  there  for  years, 
and  under  the  favourable  influence  of  a  cathedral 
atmosphere  had  already  grown  much  of  the  manner 
and  appearance  of  an  archdeacon.  The  younger, 
a  sad-eyed  Italian  of  eighteen,  had  only  been  at 
the  hotel  two  months,  but  he  looked  every  inch 
an  acolyte. 

It  was  the  archdeacon  who  had  placed  that 
plate  of  alleged  turbot  before  young  Maurice 
Haynes. 

"Turbot,  is  it?"  said  Mr  Haynes.  "  Interesting 
relic.  Now  take  it  back  to  the  cat  again,  and 
bring  me  something  to  eat." 

Suddenly  from  the  little  table  next  to  him  came 
a  wild  burst  of  laughter.  It  broke  out  like  a 
discharge  of  steam  from  a  locomotive.  It  bubbled 
with  pure  joy.  It  stopped  abruptly  and  then 
started  again  uncontrollably.  It  broke  up  all  the 
holy  calm  of  that  table  d'hote.  Withered  virgins 
of  fifty  turned  round  to  look  at  this  laughing  girl, 
some  with  a  sniff  of  disapproval,  others  compelled 
to  a  wan,  responsive  smile.  The  archdeacon- 
waiter  seemed  pained.  The  acolyte  was  proceed- 
ing with  his  work  with  apparent  calm,  when 
suddenly  the  laughter-infection  smote  him  full  in 
the  midriff.  He  dropped  a  helping  of  cabinet 
pudding,  put  a  hand  over  his  mouth,  bolted  into 


TOO  SOON  AND  TOO  LATE    183 

the  passage,  slapped  his  leg,  exploded,  and  was 
asked  what  the  devil  he  thought  he  was  doing. 
In  the  dining-room  the  girl  still  laughed  at 
intervals. 

"Control  yourself,  I  beg,"  said  her  flustered 
German  governess.  "  It  is  hysteria.  Hosh  !  hosh  ! 
Ruhig  !  Celia  !  It  is  so  rude." 

Celia  shook  her  head. 

"  Can't  help  it,  Fraulein,"  she  gasped.  "  Anything 
about  a  cat  makes  me  laugh." 

And  she  relapsed  again. 

Maurice  Haynes  had  not  had  the  faintest 
intention  of  being  amusing.  It  was  out  of  the 
bitterness  of  his  soul  that  he  had  spoken.  He 
had  already  declined  to  believe  that  over-diluted 
meat-extract  with  some  armorial  bearings  in 
stamped  carrot  constituted  Julienne  soup.  This 
supposed  turbot  was  more  than  he  could  endure. 
He  was  an  artist,  eupeptic  and  creative,  and  he 
had  been  travelling  all  day ;  on  the  morrow  he 
was  to  begin  the  presentation  portrait  of  a  scholarly 
canon  with  a  fine  head ;  now,  if  ever,  dinner  was 
a  positive  necessity.  He  sent  for  the  manageress. 

The  manageress  was  all  black  satin  and  super- 
ciliousness when  she  arrived,  but  only  the  black 
satin  was  left  by  the  time  Haynes  had  finished 
with  her.  He  was  under  the  impression  that  he 
was  being  merely  firm ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
when  you  tell  the  manageress  of  the  principal 
hotel  in  a  cathedral  city  that  she  is  not  fit  to  cater 
for  a  troop  of  performing  fleas,  you  go  beyond 
firmness. 


184  STORIES  IN  GREY 

At  any  rate,  he  was  effectual.  He  received  im- 
mediately more  turbot  than  had  ever  been  given 
to  one  man  at  one  time  since  the  foundation  of 
the  hotel.  His  helping  from  the  joint  was  such 
that  he  was  almost  (but  not  quite)  ashamed  to 
demand  a  second.  And  the  omelette  aux  fines 
herbes,  which  came  as  a  peace-offering  at  the  end 
of  the  repast,  was  exclusive  matter  for  M.  Haynes, 
Esq.,  only,  and  not  in  the  contract. 

His  sunny  temper  returned.  He  consulted 
affably  with  the  head  waiter  on  the  grave  question 
of  port.  And  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  turned 
his  head  to  see  who  the  cheeky  kid  was  who  had 
laughed  at  his  righteous  indignation. 

He  saw  a  tall  girl  of  fifteen  with  an  elderly 
governess.  The  governess  was  peeling  walnuts, 
and  the  girl  was  eating  them  ;  this  seemed  to  argue 
devotion  on  the  part  of  the  governess.  The  girl 
had  an  Irish  beauty  of  dark  hair  and  blue  eyes, 
and  her  face  followed  her  every  thought  with 
marvellous  expressiveness.  The  mouth  was 
sweet  and  sensitive.  Haynes  thought  she  had 
lovely  colour,  but  would  be  the  devil  to  paint. 
One  lightning  glance  showed  her  that  he  was 
looking  at  her ;  she  flushed  slightly,  knowing  that 
she  had  been  really  too  awful,  but  she  also  smiled, 
because  she  remembered  the  cat. 

"  Nice  kid,"  thought  Haynes. 

When  she  had  gone,  the  effect  was  much  as  if 
the  incandescent  gas  had  been  lowered.  There 
was  no  longer  any  young  vitality  in  the  room, 
nothing  but  a  few  groups  of  elderly  grey  women 


TOO  SOON  AND  TOO  LATE    185 

over  their  walnuts — pecking,  cracking,  mumbling 
sniffing. 

"Waiter,"  said  Haynes  to  the  acolyte,  "take 
my  port  into  the  smoking-room." 

The  smoking-room  was  equally  depressing.  It 
seemed  to  be  furnished  principally  with  spittoons 
and  advertisements  of  auction  sales,  and  an  aged 
smell  of  bad  beer  hovered  over  it.  Haynes 
endured  it  for  the  length  of  two  cigarettes,  and 
then  his  eye  caught,  framed  on  the  wall,  that 
successful  Christmas-number  plate,  "Won't  'Oo 
Kiss  Doggie?"  Haynes  groaned  and  fled. 

The  room  he  next  tried  was  the  drawing-room, 
and  to  prevent  any  possibility  of  mistake  its  name 
had  been  painted  on  the  door.  Here  the  furniture 
was  more  ambitious,  and  a  long-tailed  piano  stood 
open.  The  room  was  empty,  and  only  one  gas 
jet  had  been  lit.  Haynes  ran  one  hand  over  the 
keyboard,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  the 
instrument  was  in  tune.  He  sat  down,  and  began 
modulating  idly  from  one  key  into  another,  as 
his  thoughts  wandered.  Presently  he  began  to 
play  a  waltz  of  Chopin's,  all  passion  and  incense. 
He  did  not  hear  the  door  open  and  close.  It  was 
only  as  he  played  the  last  notes  that  he  found  he 
now  had  an  audience. 

There  were  two  old  ladies  with  their  knitting. 
There  was  a  German  governess  engaged  on  a 
bead  work  cover  for  a  spectacle  case.  And  there 
was  Celia,  quite  serious  now,  and  with  excited 
eyes,  coming  straight  towards  him. 

"  It  was   too  lovely,"  she   cried.     "  I    wish  you 


i86  STORIES  IN  GREY 

could  have  gone  on  for  ever."  She  held  out  her 
hand  to  him.  "  Thank  you,  thank  you  !  " 

Now,  more  than  ever,  did  consternation  fall 
upon  Fraulein.  She  lived  in  a  perpetual  state  of 
terror  as  to  what  Celia  would  do  next,  and  Celia 
always  did  it.  She  was  full  now  of  incoherent 
reproof  to  Celia  and  apologies  to  Haynes.  "  She 
is  zo  imbolsive." 

Haynes  rose  from  the  piano  laughing.  "  Ach, 
seien  Sie  ihr  nicht  bose"  he  said.  " Es  freut  mich 
jay  dass  sie  meine  dumme  Musik  gerne  hort? 

If  he  had  really  told  her  in  English  not  to  mind, 
and  that  he  was  glad  his  silly  music  had  pleased 
them,  he  would  have  made  much  less  impression. 
In  the  eyes  of  Fraulein,  the  fact  that  he  spoke  her 
native  tongue  consecrated  him  ;  and  Celia  sat  up 
till  nearly  eleven  that  night,  and  went  to  bed 
filled  with  music  and  adoration. 

Next  morning  Haynes  was  precisely  an  hour 
late  for  his  appointment  with  the  scholarly  canon 
with  the  fine  head.  His  story  in  excuse  about  a 
missing  tube  of  colour  was  plausible  and  fairly 
amusing,  but  had  no  foundation  in  fact.  He  had 
spent  that  hour  in  making  two  rapid  drawings  of 
Celia — effective  things  in  sanguine  on  grey  paper. 
And  then  Celia  and  her  governess  had  departed 
in  continuance  of  a  holiday  tour  to  places  of 
historical  and  educational  interest. 

At  the  end  of  ten  years,  on  a  late  afternoon  in 
June,  Maurice  Haynes  came  back  to  that  hotel 
again.  London  had  become  suddenly  intolerable 


TOO  SOON  AND  TOO  LATE    187 

to  him.  He  was  tired  of  his  work,  and  he  was 
still  more  tired  of  his  play,  if  the  wearying  social 
functions  that  befall  the  fashionable  portrait-painter 
are  to  be  called  play.  He  wanted  to  fly  away  and 
be  at  rest.  If  he  had  not  the  wings  of  a  dove,  he 
had,  at  any  rate,  a  good  motor-car,  and  he  drove 
it  himself.  He  had  no  particular  destination  in 
view  when  he  started ;  he  had  driven  a  hundred 
miles  before  he  decided  that  he  might  as  well  stop 
at  the  old  cathedral  city  that  night. 

He  found  little  change  at  the  hotel.  The  same 
black  satin  manageress  still  extended  turbots 
beyond  their  natural  limit ;  but  the  archidiaconal 
waiter  had  increased  in  girth  and  in  stateliness  of 
movement,  and  had  a  new  acolyte — the  sad-eyed 
Italian  had  given  place  to  a  straw-coloured 
German. 

Maurice  Haynes  dined  well,  having  taken  pre- 
cautionary measures  to  that  end.  As  soon  as  he 
had  recalled  himself  to  the  memory  of  the 
manageress,  she  had  recognized  that  this  was  not 
an  occasion  for  trifling.  But  it  seemed  that  other 
visitors  were  not  being  so  well  treated.  From  a 
little  table  behind  him  Haynes  heard  much 
grumbling  in  a  querulous  man's  voice.  "Food 
not  fit  for  a  cat/'  was  one  phrase  he  caught.  A 
woman  answered  briefly,  in  a  low  and  gentle  voice, 
and  Haynes,  without  hearing  what  she  said,  was 
conscious  that  she  was  being  bored  intolerably. 

Haynes  looked  round. 

The  woman  sat  with  her  back  to  Haynes.  She 
wore  a  black  lace  tea-gown,  and  leaned  back  in  her 


i88  STORIES  IN  GREY 

chair.  The  man  opposite  to  her  was  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  and  of  unprepossessing  appearance. 
He  had  that  thing  which  is  hardly  ever  seen, 
except  on  the  stage — a  red  nose.  He  had  also  a 
mean  mouth,  and  a  most  abominable  and  Shakes- 
pearean expanse  of  forehead. 

It  was  only  as  these  two  people  passed  out  of 
the  room  that  Haynes  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
woman's  face,  and  recognized  that  this  was  Celia. 
This  was  the  laughing  girl  that  he  had  met  ten 
years  before.  The  man  was  evidently  her  husband. 
She  was  very  beautiful,  as  she  had  promised  to  be, 
but  the  expression  on  her  face  was  very  sad.  It 
is  a  long  way  from  fifteen  to  twenty-five,  and 
many  changes  befall  in  that  decade. 

It  was  to  him  something  more  than  an  impres- 
sive coincidence.  Suddenly  this  highly-successful 
artist  saw  his  life  as  a  failure.  He  was  convinced 
that  he  should  have  married  Celia,  and  he  was 
convinced  that  they  would  have  been  happy.  But 
the  first  time  he  had  met  her,  ten  years  before,  she 
had  been  too  young  for  love.  He  had  found  her 
beauty  adorable,  and  had  liked  her  immensely  as 
a  child,  but  until  this  moment  she  had  remained  in 
his  memory  as  a  sketch  in  sanguine  on  grey  paper 
— nothing  else.  He  had  shown  no  prescience. 
He  had  not  guessed  at  the  fruition  of  the  unborn 
summers. 

For  an  evening  and  a  morning  he  had  seen  her, 
and  then  had  allowed  the  clue  of  her  life  to  slip 
out  of  his  hands.  And  now  chance  mocked  him 
once  more  with  the  sight  of  her — now  that  she 


TOO  SOON  AND  TOO  LATE    189 

was  married  to  that  miserable  little  man  with  the 
red  nose  and  plaintive  voice,  now  that  she  was 
unhappy,  now  that  it  was  too  late. 

Yet,  though  it  was  too  late,  he  now  went  into 
the  drawing-room  and  began  to  play  the  same 
music  that  he  had  played  ten  years  before.  He 
felt  certain  that  if  she  heard  it  it  would  bring  her 
to  him.  He  was  not  mistaken. 

She  paused  for  a  moment  in  the  open  doorway, 
and  then  came  towards  him,  smiling  and  self- 
possessed. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  staying  in  the  hotel," 
she  said,  and  then  added  quickly :  "  You  do  re- 
member me,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  Celia,"  he  said  as  he  shook  hands  with 
her.  "  I  remember  you  very  well.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  you  as  you  were  going  out  of  the  dining- 
room,  I  recognized  you  at  once.  I  was  wondering 
if  you  would  remember  this."  His  hands  on  the 
piano  repeated  a  phrase  of  the  music. 

"  Of  course  I  remember  it.  But  I  am  not  Celia 
any  more.  I  am  Mrs  Owen." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Haynes,  laughing.  "  When  one 
has  called  the  child  by  her  Christian  name,  one 
calls  the  woman  by  her  Christian  name.  I  shall 
certainly  call  you  Celia." 

"  You  can  if  you  like." 

"  Now  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"All  about  what?" 

"  All  about  the  last  ten  years  of  your  life." 

"  What  is  there  to  tell  ?  I  have  done  nothing. 
I  was  married  when  I  was  eighteen.  Since  then  I 


igo  STORIES  IN  GREY 

have  gone  on  existing.  Now  you,  on  the  contrary, 
have  had  a  splendid — " 

"  Have  you  got  any  children,  Celia  ?  "  he  asked 
suddenly. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Perhaps  it  is  as  well," 
she  said  drearily.  "  I  don't  think  my  husband 
would  like  children.  He  is  an  archaeologist,  you 
know.  That  is  why  we  are  here.  He  is  making 
rubbings  of  brasses  in  the  cathedral.  He  has  a 
great  collection  of  them,  all  beautifully  catalogued." 

"  How  perfectly  horrible,"  said  Haynes  with 
conviction. 

For  the  first  time  she  laughed. 

"  So  you  still  laugh  sometimes,"  he  said. 

"  Not  very  often  now.  But  I  remember  what 
you  mean.  I  believe  I  behaved  abominably.  I 
overheard  something  you  said  about  a  cat.  It 
was  your  own  private  joke,  and  I  did  not  know 
you,  and  had  no  right  to  laugh  at  it.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  jokes  about  cats  specially  appealed  to  me 
then.  Now  I  don't  think  cats  are  any  more  amus- 
ing than  anything  else,  do  you  ?  " 

"Yes — no — I  don't  know.  Are  you  happy, 
Celia  ?  " 

"  I  knew  you  were  going  to  ask  that." 

"Well,  are  you?" 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  am.     Perfectly." 

And  by  way  of  proving  it  she  added,  with  a  sob 
in  her  voice,  that  she  must  go,  that  Harry  would 
wonder  where  she  was.  He  let  her  go. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  Mr  Maurice  Haynes 


TOO  SOON  AND  TOO  LATE    191 

very  deliberately  introduced  himself  to  Mr  Henry 
Owen.  Celia  was  not  yet  down. 

Mr  Owen  was  pleased  to  be  very  gracious.  He 
said  that  Celia  had  told  him  about  Mr  Haynes, 
and  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  meet  so  distinguished 
an  artist.  "  You  gave  my  wife  a  little  sketch  you 
made  of  her  when  she  was  a  girl,  I  think  ?  " 

"  I  did." 

"Well,  I  did  a  silly  thing  about  that.  It  was 
soon  after  our  marriage.  A  friend  of  mine  came 
along  and  offered  me  a  fiver  for  it,  and  I  took  it." 

"  I  see.     And  your  wife  didn't  like  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  was  angry  enough ;  but  that's  not 
what  I  mean.  If  I  had  only  known  then  that  you 
were  the  coming  man,  I  would  never  have  sold 
that  sketch  for  a  fiver.  What  would  it  be  worth 
now  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Haynes;  "it  would 
depend  upon  how  much  anyone  wanted  it." 

In  the  course  of  conversation  Haynes  learned  a 
good  deal  about  Mr  Owen,  who  was  a  gentleman 
without  reticence.  He  explained,  for  instance, 
that  the  redness  of  his  nose  was  due  entirely  to 
dyspepsia,  and  not  to  intemperance.  He  was 
rather  pathetic  about  it,  posing  as  one  misunder- 
stood by  the  world.  He  entered  into  the  question 
of  dyspepsia  generally,  with  more  detail  than 
seemed  to  Haynes  to  be  absolutely  requisite. 
Haynes  changed  the  subject. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  would  care  to  come  out  on  my 
car  this  morning  ?  "  he  said — "  you  and  Mrs  Owen, 
of  course.  It's  rather  a  jolly  morning,  and  I've 


192  STORIES  IN  GREY 

got  nothing  to  do.  I  would  be  glad  to  drive  you 
anywhere." 

"  Not  for  me,  thanks.  I  have  my  work  to  do  at 
the  cathedral.  Take  my  wife  for  a  drive,  by  all 
means." 

"  Thanks,  I  will.     She  will  be  down  directly  ?  " 

"Yes;  I'll  send  her  to  you.  She  has  got  the 
bad  habit  of  keeping  awake  all  night,  and  sleeping 
in  the  morning.  A  great  mistake.  I'm  always 
telling  her  about  it." 

An  hour  later  Haynes,  with  Celia  by  his  side, 
drove  out  from  the  cathedral  city. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  to  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  the  world's  end,"  she  said  fantastically, 
laughing.  She  was  in  strangely  high  spirits  this 
morning. 

A  mile  further  on  he  stopped  the  car  and  got 
down  to  pick  her  the  wild  roses  that  she  wanted. 
As  he  gave  them  to  her,  he  said  in  a  low  voice  : 
"  What  is  the  good  of  pretending  any  more  ?  You 
know  perfectly  well  that  I  love  you." 

"Yes." 

"You  love  me,  too?"  She  bowed  her  head. 
"  Then  you  are  not  going  back  to  him  ?  You  will 
come  with  me  ?  " 

"  To  the  world's  end,"  she  whispered. 

It  was  quite  late  that  afternoon  when  she 
suddenly  and  irrevocably  changed  her  mind.  "I 
must  go  back,"  she  said.  "  This  is  all  very  beautiful, 
but  it  is  like  my  wild  roses — it  falls  to  pieces. 
There  is  no  romance  left.  The  sordid  legal 


TOO  SOON  AND  TOO  LATE    193 

business  always  ends  it.  Besides,  it  is  stolen 
happiness.  I  must  not  have  it.  I  have  had  a  day 
of  life,  and  I  can  go  on  living  for  a  while  on 
the  memory  of  it.  You  come  to  me  too  late, 
Maurice." 

It  was  in  vain  that  he  pleaded  with  her.  She 
admitted  that  she  did  not  know  whether  it  was 
conscience  or  cowardice,  but  she  was  none  the  less 
resolved.  An  hour  later  they  were  back  at  the 
hotel  again. 

At  Mr  Owen's  suggestion,  Maurice  dined  at 
their  table  that  night.  Mr  Owen  had  secured  a 
valuable  addition  to  his  collection,  and  was  feeling 
pleased  with  himself  and  with  the  world.  He 
rallied  his  wife  cheerfully  on  her  want  of  appetite, 
and  said  that  her  run  in  the  car  did  not  seem  to 
have  done  her  much  good. 

"  That's  it,"  he  continued.  "  She  has  no  appetite, 
but  has  a  perfect  digestion.  I  have  a  magnificent 
appetite,  but  I  always  have  to  pay  for  it  afterwards. 
Seems  ironical,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

And  suddenly  Celia  burst  into  uncontrollable, 
almost  hysterical,  and  quite  mirthless  laughter. 
That  laugh  haunted  Haynes  at  times  for  the  rest 
of  his  life. 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER 

I 

I  AM  by  profession  an  architect.  For  the  last 
eight  years  I  have  practised  in  my  native  town  at 
Stannoke  in  Gloucestershire,  at  first  in  partnership 
with  my  father,  and  after  his  retirement  alone  and 
on  my  own  account.  The  greater  part  of  my 
boyhood  was  spent  in  Stannoke,  and  I  have  early 
recollections  of  the  family  solicitor,  William  Locris. 
Twenty  years  ago  I  used  to  see  Locris  in  church 
every  Sunday  morning.  He  sat  with  his  wife, 
a  rather  heavy  and  plethoric  woman,  in  the  pew 
just  in  front  of  our  own,  accompanied  by  their 
son,  a  boy  of  my  own  age.  Locris  cannot  have 
been  more  than  thirty-five  then,  and  his  hair  had 
not  yet  begun  to  turn  grey.  He  assisted  in  the 
collection  of  the  offertory,  and  throughout  the 
service  maintained  an  air  of  decent  interest.  His 
son  sometimes  fell  asleep  in  the  sermon,  and  so 
did  I.  My  father  always  did,  and,  I  think,  made 
a  point  of  it,  but  Locris  was  always  wakeful  and 
quietly  attentive.  He  had  an  office  in  the  High 
Street  and  a  villa  outside  the  town — rather  an 
abominable  modern  construction  called  "  The 
Elms."  He  must  have  been  fairly  well  off,  for 
he  had  all  the  best  of  the  business  in  Stannoke, 

but  he  was  not  reputed  to  be  a  rich  man.     He 

194 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  195 

was  regular  in  his  attendance  at  business,  and 
regular  in  taking  walking  exercise.  He  went 
away  at  the  right  time  every  year  for  his  summer 
holiday  at  the  seaside.  If  at  that  time,  or  indeed 
for  many  years  afterwards,  I  had  wished  to  express 
the  quintessence  of  the  commonplace,  I  should 
have  described  Locris. 

I  believe  he  was  a  fairly  good,  but  not  a  brilliant, 
solicitor.  He  was  honest  and  punctual  and  pains- 
taking. He  always  discouraged  litigation,  and 
I  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  having  prevented 
my  father  from  embarking  on  a  very  expensive 
and  probably  fruitless  lawsuit. 

I  was  quite  a  young  man  when  Mrs  Locris  died. 
I  remember  she  was  buried  rather  sumptuously, 
and  that  Locris  and  his  son  wore  deep  mourning 
for  the  prescribed  time.  I  no  longer  saw  him  in 
church,  for  I  had  ceased  to  go  to  church,  but 
I  often  saw  him  on  his  way  there,  carrying  a 
prayer-book  in  his  gloved  hands.  He  wore  black 
kid  gloves,  the  most  rancid  form  of  gloves  that 
has  yet  been  devised.  On  week-days  I  used  to 
see  him  on  his  way  to  the  office  with  the  same 
loathsome  gloves,  but  with  a  copy  of  the  Times 
newspaper  in  place  of  the  prayer-book. 

Later,  I  came  upon  him  two  or  three  times  in 
the  course  of  business.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
the  man  happy  who  seldom  requires  the  services 
of  a  solicitor,  and  that  good  fortune  was  mine. 
When  he  had  any  work  to  do  for  me,  I  always 
found  him  able  and  practical,  and  his  charges  were 
fair  enough. 


196  STORIES  IN  GREY 

Five  years  ago,  when  I  was  nearly  thirty,  and 
Locris  must  have  been  quite  fifty,  he  called  on  me 
one  morning  at  my  office.  He  gave  me  a  com- 
mission that  was  quite  worth  having,  but  it  was  of 
an  extraordinary  character.  Looking  at  him  now 
closely,  I  saw  something  in  his  eyes  which  seemed 
rather  to  belie  the  dull  and  even  tenor  of  his  life. 
I  accepted  the  commission  without  hesitation, 
because,  although  the  work  was  of  a  kind  that 
I  had  never  done  before,  I  knew  where  I  could 
get  good  advice.  I  had  only  to  run  up  to  London 
and  see  my  old  father  about  it. 


II 

MY  father  had  lived  for  by  far  the  greater  part  of 
his  life  in  a  provincial  town,  but  he  preferred 
London.  As  soon  as  circumstances  made  it 
reasonable  for  him  to  retire  and  to  hand  over  the 
business  to  me,  he  took  a  flat  in  Jermyn  Street 
and  went  to  live  there.  He  had  many  friends 
in  London  and  was  a  member  of  two  clubs.  He 
was  glad  enough  to  be  free  of  routine  work,  but 
he  was  still  interested  in  his  profession,  and  was 
always  glad  to  help  me  where  his  greater  experience 
was  useful. 

We  lunched  together  at  his  club,  and  then, 
in  a  retired  corner  of  the  smoking-room,  he  asked 
me  what  the  trouble  was. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  don't  know  that  I  should 
call  it  trouble.  It's  rather  a  nice  little  commission. 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  197 

But  before  we  start  on  that  I'd  like  you  to  tell  me 
all  you  can  about  old  Locris." 

"  Old  Locris  ?  Oh,  damn  it,  James,  he's  not  so 
very  old.  He's  younger  than  I  am.  I've  only 
known  him  professionally.  We  never  had  any 
social  relations.  He's  all  right,  quite  a  solid  man, 
I  should  say." 

"Yes,  I  know  that.  You  wouldn't  call  him 
romantic  ? " 

"  No,  not  now.  There  was  a  story  when  he  was 
very  much  younger,  before  he  married.  He  wanted 
to  marry  Sir  Luke  Mallow's  daughter — Grace  her 
name  was.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  with  a  lot  of 
golden  hair,  the  kind  that  you  read  about  in  story- 
books and  never  see  in  real  life.  They  didn't 
think  Locris  was  good  enough,  and  I  suppose 
from  a  social  point  of  view  they  were  right, 
though,  for  that  matter,  in  spite  of  her  beauty, 
it  was  not  every  man  who  would  have  married  her. 
I  wouldn't  myself.  The  poor  girl  was  short  of  one 
finger  on  her  left  hand.  She  smashed  it  up  when 
she  was  a  kid,  and  it  had  to  be  amputated." 

"  So  she  chucked  Locris  ?  " 

"No.  She  did  not.  He  and  Sir  Luke  were 
fighting  it  out  together,  and  if  Sir  Luke  did  not 
give  way,  I  fancy  Locris  meant  to  run  away  with 
her.  He  is  an  obstinate  chap.  However,  while 
they  were  disputing,  Grace  settled  the  question 
for  them  by  dying  quite  suddenly — diphtheria,  I 
believe.  There  was  a  lot  of  it  about  at  the  time. 
And  within  a  month  Locris  was  married — daughter 
of  a  poor  parson  and  very  appropriate.  So  it's 


198  STORIES  IN  GREY 

Locris  who  has  given  you  this  commission,  is  it? 
Well,  the  money  will  be  all  right.  He's  never 
spent  half  his  income.  It's  quite  time  he  had 
a  better  house." 

"  And  suppose  I  told  you  that  Locris  had  gone 
mad?" 

"Any  man  may.  It's  possible.  In  his  case 
I  should  think  it  is  extremely  unlikely.  Has  he 
gone  mad  then  ? " 

"Well,  he  says  he  has  not.  While  he  was 
talking  to  me  he  made  his  scheme  seem  perfectly 
reasonable,  but  if  he  is  not  mad,  he  is  at  any  rate 
extremely  eccentric." 

"  Oh,  come,  come,"  said  my  father  impatiently. 
"  Let's  have  it.  What  is  it  the  man  wants  ? " 

"  Locris  has  bought  land  on  the  east  coast  not 
far  from  Aldeburgh.  He  wishes  to  do  there  what 
the  old  Duke  of  Portland  did  before  him." 

"  I  see.     Rooms  underground." 

"  Yes.  One  biggish  room,  forty  by  thirty,  and 
a  smaller  anteroom  communicating  with  it. 
From  the  anteroom  is  to  be  a  flight  of  steps 
up  to  the  surface,  and  the  entrance  is  to  be  masked 
by  a  small  tower  with  two  or  three  living  rooms 
in  it.  Do  you  call  that  the  project  of  a  sane 
man  ?  " 

"If  you  wanted  to  do  it  yourself  I  should  cer- 
tainly say  you  were  insane.  But  I  do  not  think  so 
in  the  case  of  Locris.  It  is  not  unnatural  in  a 
man  of  a  certain  history  who  has  come  to  his  time 
of  life.  After  all,  there  are  days  that  one  does 
not  wish  to  see.  Speaking  frankly,  the  idea  has 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  199 

occurred  to  my  own  mind  before  now.  I  have 
never  done  it,  and  never  shall  do  it.  But  it  is  by 
no  means  without  its  fascination." 

"  That  is  very  much  the  way  in  which  he  put  it. 
In  a  year's  time  he  means  to  retire  and  to  leave 
Stannoke.  And  during  that  year  this  house  is  to 
be  got  ready  for  him." 

"  Is  the  construction  to  be  secret  ? " 

"  I  asked  him  that.  He  said  he  should  make 
no  effort  at  secrecy,  as  such  efforts  always  attracted 
too  much  attention.  He  says  that  people  will  find 
their  own  explanation — that  he  wants  an  inordi- 
nately big  wine-cellar,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
In  any  case,  before  the  tower  had  been  built  three 
years,  people  would  have  forgotten  that  there  is 
this  big  room  below  it.  I  gather  that  he  has 
chosen  rather  a  lonely  spot  where  he  won't  be 
troubled  by  many  callers." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  in  so  many  words  what  his 
reason  was — why  he  is  doing  this  ? " 

"  No.  But  he  said  it  was  a  thing  which  he  had 
had  in  his  mind  for  very  many  years  past,  and 
that  he  was  glad  now  to  have  the  opportunity  to 
carry  the  idea  out.  You  see,  he  is  quite  alone  in 
the  world.  His  wife's  dead,  and  his  son's  away." 

"The  son,"  said  my  father,  meditatively. 
"  What's  the  boy  doing  ?  " 

"  Professorship  of  Greek  in  an  Australian  uni- 
versity— I  forget  which.  I  don't  know  what  they'll 
make  of  him  out  there.  He  was  an  appalling  prig." 

"  Yesj"  said  my  father.  "  I  remember  him. 
He  was  very,  very  Oxford.  \Vell  now,  it  seems 


200  STORIES  IN  GREY 

to  me  you've  got  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  ahead.  Ex- 
cavation's a  much  easier  job  now  than  it  was  twenty 
years  ago.  I  can't  go  into  it  now,  because  I've 
promised  to  play  bridge.  But  we  will  dine  at  my 
flat  and  spend  the  evening  over  the  plans  afterwards." 

"  Oh,  thanks  very  much,  dad,  that  will  suit  me 
admirably.  Meanwhile,  I  will  go  and  have  a  look 
at  the  winter  show  at  the  Academy.  Oh,  by  the 
way,  on  that  question  of  secrecy — he  did  say  that 
he  didn't  want  the  thing  talked  about  in  Stannoke, 
said  it  would  be  unpleasant  to  be  bothered  with 
questions,  and  that  clients  would  regard  him  as  a 
lunatic  and  leave  him,  and  that  this  would  have  a 
bad  effect  on  the  value  of  his  practice  when  he 
came  to  sell  it.  I  don't  think  that  anybody  but 
myself  knows  that  he  means  to  leave  Stannoke. 
Down  in  Suffolk,  though,  there  is  to  be  no  secret 
about  the  excavation." 

On  my  way  to  the  Academy  I  was  greatly  sur- 
prised to  see  Locris  himself.  He  was  coming  out 
of  a  shop  where  they  sell  ecclesiastical  furniture 
and  vestments.  He  did  not  see  me,  but  got  into 
a  cab  and  drove  off.  I  wondered  what  he  could 
be  doing  in  a  shop  of  that  description,  and  reflected 
that  it  was  quite  possible  that  he  intended  to 
make  some  presentation  to  his  parish  church  before 
leaving  Stannoke. 

Ill 

DURING  the  next  year  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mr 
Locris.  He  liked  to  be  consulted  about  the 
details  of  the  work  which  I  had  in  hand,  and  he 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  201 

was  not  an  unreasonable  man ;  that  is  to  say,  he 
always  gave  me  my  own  way  in  the  end.  His 
general  principle  seemed  to  be  to  spend  as  much 
money  as  possible  on  the  underground  rooms,  and 
as  little  as  possible  on  the  tower,  in  which  I  pre- 
sumed he  would  generally  live.  I  did  not  ask 
him  in  so  many  words  if  there  was  any  special 
purpose  for  which  he  needed  these  underground 
rooms.  It  might  of  course  be  an  elderly  man's 
weariness — the  fact  that,  as  my  father  put  it,  there 
were  some  days  he  did  not  wish  to  see,  and 
another  explanation  also  occurred  to  my  mind. 

I  went  up  to  "The  Elms"  one  night  to  show 
Locris,  at  his  own  request,  the  estimates  I  had 
obtained  for  carrying  out  some  elaborate  metal- 
work.  The  servant,  who  showed  me  into  the 
drawing-room,  told  me  that  Mr  Locris  was  in  the 
laboratory.  When  he  came  in  a  minute  or  two 
later,  I  spoke  to  him  chaffingly  about  this,  and 
asked  him  if  it  was  another  new  idea. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Locris.  "  Every  man  must  have 
a  hobby.  The  law  is  a  very  interesting  profession, 
but  it  would  interest  me  very  much  less  if  I  did 
nothing  else.  I  have  been  a  student  of  chemistry 
for  many  years  past  in  my  leisure  time." 

"  Going  to  invent  a  new  poison  ? "  I  suggested. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  Something  new,  perhaps,  but 
not  a  poison.  Shall  we  get  to  business  ?  " 

In  some  ways  Locris  was  a  disappointment  to 
me.  He  would  not  fit  in  at  all  with  my  precon- 
ceived idea  of  what  a  man  should  be  like  who 
builds  himself  an  underground  dwelling.  I  had 


202  STORIES  IN  GREY 

to  consult  him  about  this  time  with  reference  to 
the  renewal  of  the  lease  of  my  house.  I  wanted 
to  get  the  renewal,  and  I  did  not  want  the  rent  to 
be  put  up.  Locris  managed  it  for  me,  showing 
tact  and  intelligence  and  all  good  business  qualities 
in  the  negotiation.  It  was  true  that  the  law 
interested  him.  He  would  break  off  his  examina- 
tion of  drawings  of  details  for  his  new  abode,  in 
order  to  speak  again  of  that  lease.  It  contained 
one  or  two  unusual  clauses. 

But  at  any  rate  I  had  this  other  possible 
explanation  for  his  actions.  He  was  keen  on 
chemistry  and  was  expecting  to  produce  some 
new  discovery.  Inventors  are  jealous  people. 
^He  might  perhaps  think  himself  safer  if  his 
laboratory  were  underground. 

He  showed  himself  to  be  a  kindly  man.  This 
was  particularly  the  case  with  regard  to  poor  old 
Simpson,  the  verger  at  the  church  which  Locris 
attended.  Simpson  was  a  man  of  well  over  sixty, 
and  incapable  of  doing  any  hard  work.  Rheuma- 
tism had  compelled  him  to  give  up  the  grave-digging 
many  years  before.  He  was  an  intermittent 
drunkard.  He  had  long  spells  of  total  abstinence, 
interspersed  with  brief  bursts  of  intoxication.  As 
a  rule  he  timed  his  breakdowns  very  carefully,  so 
that  they  should  not  attract  the  attention  of  his 
employers.  But  on  one  occasion  he  had  been 
found  drunk  in  the  churchyard,  and  he  had  now 
been  guilty  of  a  still  more  horrid  delinquency. 
He  had  been  found  incapacitated  by  drink  in  the 
church  itself,  and  had  been  promptly  dismissed. 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  203 

Locris  was  quite  angry  about  it.  He  kept  on 
repeating  that  Simpson  was  an  old  man  and  that 
there  was  no  chance  of  his  getting  any  other 
berth,  and  that  it  was  a  shameful  thing  to  allow 
the  one  or  two  days  when  he  had  yielded  to 
temptation  to  counterbalance  his  many  years  of 
faithful  and  effective  service.  It  was  plausible, 
but  it  did  not  prevail.  Locris  moved  heaven  and 
earth  to  get  Simpson  kept  on,  and  Locris  had  a 
good  deal  of  influence  with  the  vicar.  But  the 
thing  was  too  heinous,  and  the  old  man  was 
turned  out.  It  was  expected,  of  course,  that,  as 
he  had  no  one  to  support  him,  he  would  have  to 
go  to  the  workhouse.  But  Simpson  did  not  go  to 
the  workhouse.  He  kept  on  his  small  cottage  and 
worked  in  the  scrap  of  garden  which  belonged  to 
it.  When  questioned  by  the  philanthropical  or 
the  curious,  he  maintained  that  he  had  private 
means.  Most  people  guessed  that  Locris  was 
allowing  him  a  small  pension. 

In  due  course  the  work  at  Mangay  near 
Aldeburgh  was  completed,  and  Locris  sold  his 
practice  to  a  couple  of  young  solicitors  who  were 
in  partnership  together.  It  was  announced  that 
he  was  about  to  leave  Stannoke,  and  the  vicar,  in 
one  of  his  sermons,  made  a  very  feeling  and 
sympathetic  reference  to  the  impending  departure. 
Locris  found  himself  referred  to  as  "  one  who  has 
set  such  an  excellent  example,  not  only  in  the 
rectitude  of  his  professional  career  and  his  private 
life,  but  also  in  his  regular  attendance  at  divine 
worship." 


204  STORIES  IN  GREY 

At  the  same  time,  the  vicar  did  not  know  every- 
thing about  Mr  Locris.  He  met  me  in  the  street 
one  day  and  stopped  me.  "  So  sorry,"  he  said, 
"  you  are  to  lose  your  friend,  Mr  Locris.  He  tells 
me  that  he  is  going  to  live  in  the  country." 

"  That  is  so,  I  believe." 

"  But  he  did  not  happen  in  his  conversation  with 
me  to  mention  what  part  of  the  country." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "there's  no  secret  about  it,  I 
believe.  He's  going  to  live  in  Suffolk." 

I  hurried  on.  Suffolk  as  a  postal  address  is 
perhaps  somewhat  vague,  but  I  do  not  like  curious 
vicars.  If  Locris  had  meant  to  have  told  him 
everything,  he  would  have  done  so  himself. 


IV 

FOR  three  years  I  never  saw  Locris  and  had  no 
news  of  him.  For  a  provincial  architect  I  was 
doing  fairly  well  in  my  profession.  I  specialized 
in  bungalows  and  small  houses,  and  had  as  much 
work  as  I  could  do.  My  father  thought  that  I 
should  leave  Stannoke  and  come  to  London,  and 
I  was  not  altogether  averse  to  making  the  plunge  ; 
but  still,  the  local  connection  meant  a  good  deal 
to  me,  and  I  did  not  want  to  lose  it.  Life  at 
Stannoke  went  on  with  its  customary  placidity. 
Market-day  was  the  one  day  in  the  week  when  we 
all  of  us  seemed  to  be  alive.  And  Sunday  was 
the  one  day  in  the  week  when  we  all  of  us  seemed 
to  be  dead.  On  the  other  days  we  were  in  a  con- 
dition of  mild  lethargy.  In  such  a  town  very 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  205 

small  things  make  a  sensation.  Sir  Luke  Mallow, 
son  of  the  Sir  Luke  to  whom  my  father  referred, 
had  an  old  cart-horse  stolen  from  one  of  his  fields. 
We  talked  about  it  for  weeks,  and  our  best  police- 
man seemed  practically  to  live  on  his  bicycle. 
But  neither  he  nor  anybody  else  ever  found  the 
horse  or  the  man  who  had  stolen  it.  Then  old 
Simpson  sold  his  few  sticks  of  furniture  to  a  dealer 
one  day,  paid  the  three  weeks'  rent  he  still  owed, 
and  started  off  into  the  unknown.  We  talked  a 
good  deal  about  the  fate  of  Simpson  too.  There 
were  many  theories,  but  alcohol  and  sudden  death 
had  their  part  in  all  of  them.  A  week  later,  a 
touring  company  was  unwise  enough  to  visit 
Stannoke,  and  the  sensation  caused  wiped  out  all 
recollections  of  Simpson. 

And  then  a  man,  whose  brother  lived  at 
Stannoke,  decided  to  build  himself  a  bungalow  at 
Aldeburgh.  I  knew  the  brother,  and  I  received 
the  commission.  I  went  down  to  Aldeburgh  to 
spend  some  days  over  the  business,  and  it  occurred 
to  me  that  I  was  within  an  easy  drive  of  the  tower 
where  Locris  lived.  I  managed  to  hire  a  dog-cart 
of  sorts,  and  drove  out  there  one  afternoon. 

I  left  my  dog-cart  at  the  one  little  inn  in  Mangay, 
and  struck  across  the  fields  on  foot  towards  the 
tower.  I  had  mentioned  at  the  inn  that  I  was 
going  to  see  Mr  Locris,  and  found  that  any 
interest  which  might  have  been  taken  in  him,  or 
his  unusual  dwelling,  had  entirely  subsided. 

"  Nice  old  gentleman,"  said  my  landlord. 
"  Wish  I  had  his  cellars.  I  could  buy  my  winter 


206  STORIES  IN  GREY 

coal  in  the  summer  then,  and  save  a  bit.  There's 
a  fine  view,  they  say,  from  that  tower  of  his.  I 
suppose  that's  what  he  built  it  for." 

"  Do  you  see  much  of  him  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  to  say  much,"  the  landlord  admitted. 
"  Sometimes  when  he's  out  for  a  walk  he'll  drop 
in  here  for  a  glass  of  bitter,  but  he's  not  been  of 
late.  He  doesn't  enjoy  the  best  of  health,  they 
tell  me,  and — well,  we're  none  of  us  so  young  as 
we  were." 

The  tower  had  changed  very  little  since  I  last 
saw  it.  As  a  piece  of  work  I  was  not  very  proud 
of  it.  I  could  have  made  a  good  thing  of  it,  but 
Locris  had  been  very  skimpy  and  ignoble  about 
that  tower.  He  would  not  let  me  have  the 
materials  I  wanted.  It  seemed  absurd  enough  too, 
when  he  was  burying  good  black-and-white  marble 
underground. 

Greatly  to  my  surprise  the  door  of  the  tower 
was  opened  to  me  by  old  Simpson.  He  had  re- 
sumed the  suit  of  black  broadcloth,  with  the  boot- 
lace neck-tie,  which  had  been  his  official  costume 
as  verger.  He  must  have  recognized  me,  but  he 
gave  no  sign  of  it.  He  waited  there  like  a  stone 
image  for  me  to  speak.  I  asked  if  Mr  Locris  was 
in. 

"He  is,  sir,"  said  Simpson,  severely.  "Kindly 
wait  where  you  are.  I'll  inquire  if  he  can  see 
you." 

He  returned  in  a  moment  with  the  announce- 
ment that  Mr  Locris  would  be  pleased  to  see  me, 
and  showed  me  into  one  of  the  small  living-rooms, 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  207 

where  Locris  sat  writing  at  a  cheap  American 
desk.  I  noticed  at  once  that  he  had  aged  very 
much  in  these  last  few  years.  He  was  more  bent. 
He  seemed  to  have  shrunken. 

He  rose  as  I  entered,  and  shook  hands  with  me. 

"  It  is  strange  that  you  have  come,"  he  said.  "  I 
had  just  written  to  you." 

He  showed  me  a  sealed  letter  addressed  to 
myself,  which  was  lying  on  the  desk,  but  he  did 
not  give  it  to  me. 

"  The  fact  of  the  case  is,"  he  said,  "  that  my  son 
being  out  of  England,  I  have  made  you  the  exe- 
cutor of  my  will.  It  will  give  you  very  little 
trouble.  I  hope  you  will  not  refuse  to  act." 

I  answered,  of  course,  that  I  was  quite  willing  to 
undertake  the  work,  and  made  the  usual  banal 
observation  that  I  hoped  the  time  was  still  far 
distant  for  it. 

"  I  should  not  say  that,"  said  Locris.  "  I  am 
not  well.  I  am  far  from  well.  Dr  Hanneford 
from  Aldeburgh  is  coming  up  to  see  me  to-morrow 
morning.  However,  I  do  not  want  to  bore  you 
about  my  health.  I  should  perhaps  tell  you  that 
by  my  will  I  am  leaving  you  my  land  here." 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  I  said,  "but  I  don't 
think  you  should  do  that.  I  hope  you  will  re- 
consider it.  You  have  a  son,  you  know,  and  I 
believe  you  have  not  quarrelled  with  him." 

"  I  am  on  perfectly  good  terms  with  my  son. 
I  have  been  in  communication  with  him  on  this 
very  matter.  He  is  quite  content  that  it  should 
be  so.  You  must  remember  that  these  three  acres 


208 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


represent  a  very  small  portion  of  my  property,  and 
that  he  will  have  the  rest."  He  paused  and  looked 
at  me  very  intently,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  read 
my  thoughts.  "Are  you  wondering,"  he  said, 
"  what  you  will  do  with  a  house  like  this  ?  " 

He  had  guessed  my  thoughts  exactly,  but  I  told 
him  that  the  idea  had  not  occurred  to  me. 

"  I  ask,"  he  said,  "  because  you  will  not  have 
the  house.  You  will  have  the  land,  but  not  the 
house." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  I  said. 

"An  explanation  will  be  forthcoming.  I  may 
give  it  to  you  to-day  perhaps — to-morrow  perhaps 
— any  day.  If  you  have  not  received  the  explana- 
tion at  the  time  of  my  death,  it  will  be  waiting  for 
you  in  my  writing.  You  will  have  the  land,  and 
you  will  not  have  the  house." 

At  this  moment  Simpson  brought  in  some  very 
strong  and  bitter  tea,  and  some  untidy  bread  and 
butter.  These  are  not  things  that  I  love  precisely, 
but  I  partook  of  them  meekly.  I  asked  the  old 
man  if  he  found  Simpson  a  useful  servant. 

"  Simpson  has  been  invaluable  to  me.  From  the 
domestic  point  of  view  he  is  perhaps  the  worst 
servant  that  ever  existed,  but  that  is  a  matter  of 
comparatively  little  importance.  I  am  not  a  very 
particular  man.  Almost  anything  does.  Nowa- 
days I  live  principally  on  tea,  and  I  fancy  it  is 
not  very  good  tea,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Since  you  ask  me,  it  is  a  very  low  grade  of 
Indian  tea,  and  I  should  imagine  that  the  con- 
tinued consumption  of  it  might  have  something  to 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  209 

do  with  the  ill-health  of  which  you  complain. 
Really,  Mr  Locris,  I  think  you  ought  to  get 
yourself  looked  after  better." 

"  I  have  thought  so  myself,"  said  Locris,  sadly, 
"  Something  perhaps  must  be  done.  But  in  any 
case  I  must  keep  Simpson,  because  he  is  a  faithful 
man  and  holds  his  tongue.  You  see  ?  He  goes 
down  below  with  me,  and  he  comes  up  with  me, 
and  he  does  what  he  is  told,  and  no  one 
hears  anything  about  it.  I  am  never  bothered." 

I  could  not  quite  make  out  to  what  he  was 
referring.  I  suppose  I  looked  puzzled. 

"  Yes,"  said  Locris,  suddenly.  "  Why  not  ?  Better 
perhaps  on  the  whole.  You  shall  have  your  ex- 
planation now.  You  shall  come  down  with  me." 

I  consented  at  once.  I  was  human  enough  to 
be  rather  curious  as  to  the  use  to  which  he  had 
put  these  underground  rooms. 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  told  Simpson  to  bring  the 
lanterns.  They  were  just  ordinary  candle  lanterns 
of  japanned  tin.  The  spiral  staircase  which  went 
up  to  the  top  of  the  tower  also  descended  below 
the  surface  to  the  underground  rooms.  They  were 
not  very  far  down,  the  roof  of  them  being  twenty 
feet  below  the  surface.  We  went  through  the  iron 
gate  and  down  the  stairs  together.  Old  Simpson 
went  first  with  a  lantern,  and  I  followed  him. 
Behind  me  came  Locris  with  the  other  lantern. 

The  aspect  of  the  anteroom  seemed  to  show  me 
that  my  conjecture  had  been  right.  It  was  fitted 
as  a  laboratory  and  looked  as  if  it  had  been  in 

recent  use.     Locris  waved   his  hand  towards  the 
o 


210  STORIES  IN  GREY 

shelves  and  bottles.     "  What  do  you  know  about 
that  kind  of  thing?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  I  said.  "  It  is  not  in  my  line.  Is 
there  anything  very  wonderful  there  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Locris,  pointing  to  a  bottle  which 
seemed  to  contain  some  brown  resinous  powder. 
"  That  stuff  in  there  is  very  wonderful." 

I  raised  my  hand  to  take  it  down  and  have  a 
look  at  it,  and  found  my  arm  struck  down  at  once 
by  old  Simpson.  Locris  could  see  that  I  was 
angry,  and  hastened  to  apologize. 

"  Sorry,"  he  said.  "  But  Simpson  was  quite 
right.  He  had  to  do  it  in  the  interests  of  your 
safety." 

"  I  don't  see  how  my  safety  was  concerned.  It 
doesn't  kill  a  man  to  touch  a  bottle.  Did  he  think 
I  was  going  to  eat  the  stuff?  " 

"No,  no,"  said  Locris.  "The  thing  is  very 
simple.  You  asked  me  once  if  I  was  inventing  a 
new  poison.  I  told  you  that  I  was  not.  It  would  not 
interest  me  in  the  least.  And  besides,  we  have 
plenty  of  the  old-fashioned  poisons  which  do  their 
work  in  a  perfectly  satisfactory  manner.  What  I 
really  have  invented  is  a  new  explosive.  There  is 
a  specimen  of  it  in  that  bottle.  Had  you  dropped 
the  bottle,  it  would  have  been  the  end  of  all 
of  us." 

"Cheerful  work,"  I  said.  "And  the  big  room 
beyond?  Is  that  a  continuation  of  the  labora- 
tory ?  " 

"  Hush  ! "  said  Locris,  impressively.  "  It  is  not. 
The  room  beyond  is  a  tomb — a  chapel  of  the  dead. 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  an 

Come,  Simpson,  give  me  the  keys.  We  shall 
show  this  gentleman  everything." 

I  picked  up  one  of  the  lanterns. 

"  We  shall  not  need  that,"  said  Locris.  "  The 
chapel  is  always  lighted." 

Simpson  was  already  pulling  back  the  heavy 
sliding-doors  between  the  two  rooms,  and  I  could 
see  the  bright  light  beyond.  Simpson  and  Locris 
entered  first.  Locris  went  down  on  his  knees  on 
a  faldstool  near  the  door,  and  Simpson,  a  grotesque 
figure,  knelt  on  a  hassock  behind  him.  I  myself 
stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  astonished  by 
the  scene  which  I  witnessed. 

In  the  middle  of  this  underground  chapel  there 
was  erected  a  high  catafalque,  draped  with  gold 
and  white.  On  the  catafalque  there  lay  in  her 
white  shroud  the  body  of  a  young  girl.  Her  hair, 
astonishingly  golden  and  profuse,  was  loose  about 
her  shoulders.  Her  hands  were  clasped  on  her  breast. 
As  I  looked  at  them,  I  saw  what  I  had  expected 
to  see.  The  first  finger  of  the  left  hand  was 
missing.  The  face  in  profile,  as  I  saw  it,  was  very 
beautiful,  and  had  not  the  yellowish  waxy  look  of 
the  face  of  a  corpse.  There  was  a  tinge  of  colour 
in  the  cheeks.  One  could  almost  have  believed 
that  the  girl  was  alive.  On  either  side  of  the 
catafalque  were  three  brass  candlesticks,  eight  or 
nine  feet  in  height.  Each  of  these  candlesticks 
had  seven  branches.  There  were  thick  yellow 
candles  in  them,  now  burning  low.  The  candle 
flames  lit  up  the  red  jewels  in  a  high  cross  that 
stood  behind  the  head  of  the  girl.  A  faint  scent 


212 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


of  incense  still  lingered  in  the  air.  The  walls  of 
the  room  were  draped  with  white  and  gold,  and 
but  for  those  things  which  I  have  mentioned,  the 
room  was  empty.  Locris  and  the  old  verger  re- 
mained kneeling  in  silence  for  perhaps  five  minutes, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  a  very  much  longer  time. 
Then  Locris  arose,  and  both  of  them  stepped 
backwards  from  the  room,  closing  the  heavy  door 
behind  them. 

The  silence  was  perfectly  terrible.  I  wanted  to 
speak,  in  order  to  break  the  spell  of  it,  but  found 
nothing  to  say.  At  last  came  the  voice  of  Locris, 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  Now  do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Partly,  I  think.     Let  us  come  upstairs  again." 

As  before  each  of  the  two  men  took  a  lantern, 
and  I  walked  between  them.  Upstairs  in  the 
living-room,  Simpson  began  to  clear  away  the 
strong  tea  and  the  untidy  bread  and  butter.  I 
waited  until  he  had  gone,  and  then  I  turned  to 
Locris.  "  How  is  this  to  end  ? "  I  said. 

"  Quite  simple,"  said  old  Locris,  rubbing  his  thin 
hands  together.  "  I  shall  know  when  my  time  has 
come,  and  it  cannot  now  be  long  delayed.  I  shall 
go  down  to  the  chapel,  and  old  Simpson  with  me. 
It  is  his  own  wish  that  he  should  not  survive  me. 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  then,  but  to  start  in  the 
anteroom  a  little  piece  of  clockwork  apparatus. 
It  is  connected  with  that  explosive  which  you 
have  seen.  In  a  few  minutes,  as  we  are  kneeling 
there,  the  crash  will  come.  All  your  good  work 
will  be  spoiled,  my  friend.  This  tower  will  fall, 


LOCRIS  OF  THE  TOWER  213 

and  the  rooms  below  it  will  be  buried  deep.  You 
will  have  your  simple  explanation  to  give.  You 
knew  that  I  was  interested  in  the  chemistry  of 
explosives,  and  that  1  worked  at  the  subject  in 
those  rooms  down  there.  You  will  say  nothing 
more  than  this." 

"  Very  well,"  I  said.  I  was  absolutely  convinced 
of  the  man's  insanity,  and  was  wondering  what 
was  the  best  thing  to  be  done. 

"You  see  nothing  unnatural  in  this,  I  hope," 
said  Locris.  "  That,  you  know,  is  the  only  woman 
whom  I  have  loved  or  can  love.  Life  would  have 
taken  me  from  her,  but  I  could  have  prevailed 
over  the  living.  Death  was  too  strong  for  me. 
When  she  died  I  had  no  other  aim  in  life  but  to 
do  what  I  have  done  here.  For  that  purpose 
alone  were  all  my  years  of  work,  and  all  the 
money  that  I  made.  For  me  there  has  never 
existed  any  other  woman." 

I  ventured  to  remind  him.  "  But  you  were 
married,  Mr  Locris." 

"  Never,"  he  said  vehemently, "  never !  The  man 
who  passes  as  my  son  is  not  my  son.  I  married 
his  mother  to  save  her  from  ruin,  but  there  was  in 
the  marriage  no  more  than  the  ceremony,  and  she 
understood  that  there  never  would  be  any  more." 

There  were  other  questions  which  I  might  have 
asked  him,  but  I  thought  it  better  to  get  away  and 
take  the  necessary  steps  as  soon  as  possible.  I  did 
not  know,  for  instance,  how  he  had  managed  to 
remove  the  body  from  the  vault  in  the  churchyard 
at  Stannoke,  but  the  strange  alliance  between  him 


214  STORIES  IN  GREY 

and  the  old  verger  might  be  at  the  bottom  of  this. 
The  details  of  that  removal  I  never  did  discover. 
But  I  learned  that  the  body  had  been  embalmed, 
and  a  doctor  told  me  that  the  method  of  embalm- 
ment adopted  would  account  for  that  slight  tinge 
of  natural  colour  in  the  dead  girl's  face. 

I  waited  impatiently  at  the  inn  for  my  horse  to 
be  put  in.  My  nerves  were  upset,  and  I  left  the 
man  who  was  with  me  to  do  the  driving. 

"  Back  to  the  hotel,  sir  ?  "  he  said. 

"No.  You  know  where  Dr  Hanneford  lives? 
Drive  there,  and  drive  as  fast  as  you  can." 

About  two  hours  later  Dr  Hanneford  and  three 
other  men,  of  whom  I  was  one,  were  driving  in 
the  direction  of  the  tower.  We  had  got  within  a 
little  more  than  a  mile  of  it  when  we  heard  the 
roar  of  the  catastrophe.  The  horse  in  the  cart 
shied  violently  and  fell. 

"We  are  too  late,"  said  Dr  Hanneford,  as  he 
got  down  to  see  to  the  horse. 


MINIATURES 
I 

THE  REMEDY 

THE  morning  was  fresh  and  cool  with  a  promise 
of  great  heat  to  come  later.  The  street  of  the 
drowsy  village  was  almost  deserted.  Nothing  in 
it  was  very  active  except  the  butcher's  cart,  always 
more  active  than  other  carts.  The  children  were 
at  school.  Old  people  stood  at  their  doors  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  tell  a  passer-by  that  the  weather 
promised  to  be  a  scorcher. 

A  neat  little  old  lady  came  out  of  a  neat  little 
house  at  the  top  of  the  street  and  across  a  neat 
little  garden  in  front  of  it.  It  was  all  in  keeping. 
Given  the  house,  you  could  have  constructed  the 
woman ;  given  the  woman,  you  could  have  con- 
structed the  garden.  She  paused  at  the  gate  to 
explain  to  her  cat  that  he  must  not  come  with  her. 
The  cat  was  horribly  bored  and  never  had  any 
intention  of  going  with  her.  Then  she  went  on 
her  way  with  a  slight  smile  on  her  timid,  patient 
face  and  her  leather  hand-bag  grasped  firmly. 

The  smile  met  with  responsive  smiles  as  she 
went  along.  Any  of  the  people  at  the  doorways 
would  have  told  you  who  she  was  and  that  she  did 
any  amount  of  good.  She  spent  more  of  her  small 

income  on  others  than  on  herself;  she  was  free 
215 


216 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


nurse  to  anyone  who  happened  to  be  ill,  and  an 
accommodating  banker  to  anyone  who  happened  to 
be  poor ;  she  had  never  been  able  to  pass  a  child 
crying  in  the  street  without  stopping  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter  and  to  put  it  right  if  possible. 

The  curate,  a  pleasant-looking,  bronzed  man, 
stopped  for  a  brief  chat  with  her.  She  was  sure 
that  there  was  not  going  to  be  any  rain.  She 
kept  a  bunch  of  seaweed  and  went  by  that.  The 
talk  turned  to  church  work. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  curate,  "  you  are  out  on 
your  errands  of  mercy  as  usual  ?  " 

The  old  lady's  face  changed.  For  a  moment 
there  was  a  look  of  horror  and  of  a  desperate 
resentment.  "  I  can  do  nothing,"  she  said,  "  in  that 
way.  I  have  been  at  it  so  long,  and  it  still  goes 
on — suffering  everywhere.  To  try  to  abate  it  is 
like  trying  to  clear  a  desert  by  picking  up  the 
grains  of  sand.  There  is  only  one  thing — " 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  opening  her  hand-bag 
and  producing  a  box  of  sweetmeats. 

"You  will  have  one  of  these?"  she  said 
earnestly. 

"  Thanks  very  much,"  said  the  curate,  "  I  never 
eat  sweet  things,  and  I  mustn't  rob  your  favourite 
children." 

As  she  passed  on  he  paused  and  looked  after 
her.  Really  she  had  been  rather  queer. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  she  met  a  little  girl 
crying,  and  heard  her  story.  The  little  girl  had 
very  bad  toothache,  so  bad  that  the  teacher  had 
allowed  her  to  go  home  from  school. 


MINIATURES  217 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  the  little  old  lady,  "you 
will  have  that  tooth  out,  and  then  another  one  will 
ache,  and  then  another.  It  is  the  way  the  world 
was  made.  It  goes  on  like  that.  But  do  take  one 
of  these."  Again  she  produced  her  box.  The 
child  took  one  and  thanked  her. 

Once  clear  of  the  village  a  tramp  of  great 
judgment  saw  that  this  was  a  suitable  opportunity. 
He  began  a  plain,  manly  statement  that  he  had 
walked  from  Manchester  and  had  not  tasted  food 
for  three  days,  and  that  God  knew  he  was  willing 
to  work  if  only  he  could  find  a  job.  The  old  lady 
gave  him  a  shilling. 

"  Yours  is  a  sad  case,  my  man,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  have  no  delusions  about  it.  The  shilling  will  do 
you  no  real  good  ;  by  to-morrow  or  next  day  you 
will  be  just  as  poor  and  just  as  hungry  unless — 
But  won't  you  take  one  of  these  ? " 

The  tramp  hesitated.  Still,  she  had  given  him 
a  shilling  and  it  would  do  no  harm  to  humour  her. 
He  took  a  couple  of  sweetmeats  from  the  box, 
thrust  them  into  his  large,  dirty  mouth,  and 
touched  his  cap. 

The  old  lady  went  on  her  way.  Further  on  she 
found  a  woman,  the  mother  of  far  too  many 
children,  who  complained  bitterly.  The  old  lady 
heard  her  story  to  the  end. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  is  as  you  say.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  suffering  in  the  world.  I  am  quite 
powerless  to  alleviate  it.  But  I  think  you  should 
take  one  of  these,"  and  again  the  box  was 
produced  from  the  hand-bag. 


218 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


On  her  way  home  the  old  lady  passed  the 
tramp  again.  He  was  lying  under  the  hedge  and 
he  was  dead.  She  stood  a  moment  looking  at  him 
without  horror  and  with  a  mild  interest,  and  then 
went  back  to  the  neat  little  house  in  the  neat  little 
garden.  There  she  sat  and  waited  for  the  police. 

They  sent  her  to  Broadmoor,  of  course. 


II 


IN   THE  HOSPITAL  GARDEN 

THE  little  grey  monkey  sat  up  on  the  bough  of  the 
lebbek,  handling  meditatively  the  slender  chain 
that  limited  his  freedom.  His  wise  blinking  eyes, 
looked  out  towards  the  desert,  and  saw  the  sand 
clouds  dim  in  the  distance.  Soon,  soon  undoubt- 
edly, the  khamseen  would  be  here,  and  the  last  of 
the  tourists  would  go.  The  khamseen,  a  hot 
dust-laden  wind,  blows,  so  the  Copts  say,  from 
their  Easter  until  their  Pentecost;  it  keeps  its 
appointment  with  fair  accuracy  as  a  rule.  But, 
after  all,  tourists  did  not  concern  the  monkey  very 
much.  One  or  two  of  them  came  now  and  again 
on  a  visit  to  Hakeem  Basha,  and  he  had  heard 
them  in  heated  argument  with  superfluous  guides 
in  the  road  beyond  the  compound.  But  he  was 
the  hospital  monkey ;  not  one  of  those  that  earn 
their  bread  and  their  master's  in  front  of  hotel 
verandahs  at  a  loss  of  personal  dignity,  but  the 
monkey  of  a  small  but  scientific — and  also  religious 
— establishment.  True,  the  little  hospital  had  not 


MINIATURES  219 

the  extent  or  the  equipment  of  the  great  hospital 
of  Kasr-el-Aini,  but  it  was  doing  good  work ;  it 
considered  the  soul  as  well  as  the  body  of  the 
patient ;   the  residential  monkey  at  such  a  place 
has  a  position.     And  he  deserved  it ;  he  never  bit 
and  he  never  scratched  ;  he  accepted  the  proffered 
nut  with  solemn  civility.     If  he  was  somewhat  of  a 
philosopher,  that  may  have  been  due  to  the  fact 
that  two    or    three    conflicting    religions,    all   in 
excellent  working  order,  were  going  on  under  his 
very    nose.      And    to    the    philosophy    may    be 
ascribed  his  habits  of  reserve.     He  did  not  come 
when  he  was   called,   unless   it   was   to  the  soft, 
cooing  voice  of  the  little  blind  girl.     If  any  other 
•would  pet  him  or  play  with  him,  he  retired  gently 
up  the  tree,  turned  his  back  and  thought  deeply. 
He  was  well  aware,  too,  that  if  you  keep  in  the 
shade  and  move  rapidly,  the  snap-shot  photograph 
of  you  will  hardly  repay  development.    He  certainly 
had  the  air  of  knowing  much.     He  would  look  over 
a  group  of  natives  as  though  he  diagnosed  which 
of  the  common  plagues  of  Egypt  brought  them 
there.     This  one  was  eyes  and  that  one  also  was 
eyes.     This  was   tubercular,   and   that   would   be 
treated  with  a  dose  of  thymol  that  would  startle 
a   European   practitioner.      Perhaps   he  was   not 
always  accurate.     The  first  day  the  pretty  blind 
girl  had  called  him  from  her  seat  on  the  turf  under 
the  lebbek  tree  he  had  come  to  her  at  once,  and 
had  seen  that  it  was  her  eyes  which  troubled  her ; 
but  that  was  not  all,  nor  was  it  the  worst  of  the 
trouble. 


220  STORIES  IN  GREY 

The  grey  monkey  turned  to  the  garden  beneath 
him.  There  stretched  the  hedge  of  hibiscus,  a 
glory  of  scarlet  flames.  Beyond,  there  glimmered 
faintly  in  the  sun  the  creamy  white  of  the  oleander. 
On  the  seat  below  the  lebbek  tree  snored  a  fat 
native  woman,  old  and  past  at  thirty-five.  But 
nowhere  could  be  seen  the  pretty  blind  girl.  And 
this  was  now  the  second  day  that  she  had  not  been 
in  the  garden,  the  second  day  that  she  had  never 
called  to  him. 

He  may  be  acquitted  of  low  motives.  It  is  true 
that  she  fed  him,  but  their  friendship  dated  from 
the  day  when  she  came  in,  and  she  had  nothing  to 
give  then.  She  subjugated  the  hospital  in  a  few 
hours.  It  may  have  been  because  she  was  so 
pretty,  or  because  her  cooing  laugh  was  so  musical, 
or  because  all  her  ways  were  charming,  or  because 
it  was  so  sad  that  she  had  lost  her  sight  and  was 
like  to  lose  her  life  as  well.  She  became  a  general 
pet,  and  the  monkey  was  her  special  pet,  and  she 
did  not  come  to  him  empty-handed. 

The  monkey  blinked  gravely.  He  could  not 
think  what  had  happened  to  her.  The  reader  has 
guessed,  of  course.  Inside  the  hospital  all  was 
over.  It  was  the  last  chance  and  it  had  failed. 
The  doctor  went  on  to  other  cases  where  his  skill 
might  be  of  better  service.  The  hard-featured 
Englishwoman,  who  did  the  work  of  three  and 
hated  sentimentality,  was  compelled  to  be  angry 
with  herself.  If  she  was  going  to — well,  to  be 
stupid — every  time  a  little  native  girl  died,  of  what 
use  was  she  likely  to  be  ? 


MINIATURES  221 

As  the  evening  came  rapidly  on,  the  monkey 
made  up  his  mind  on  two  points.  Obviously  his 
friend  was  quite  well  again.  The  doctor  had  given 
her  back  her  sight,  and  she  had  gone  home.  The 
second  conclusion  was  that  the  swivel  of  his  chain 
could  be  negotiated.  It  was  dusk  when  he 
negotiated  it,  and  slipped  through  the  tamarisk 
hedge  and  over  the  wall  to  look  for  the  blind  girl. 
Among  the  mud  huts  quick  eyes  saw  him.  He 
heard  the  scream  of  excited  voices,  and  felt  the 
shower  of  stones.  He  fell  from  the  roof  to  the 
ground,  and — well,  that  ends  his  history.  Nor 
may  we  suppose  that  he  and  his  playfellow  will 
meet  again.  The  two  or  three  religions  that  he 
daily  contemplated  are  agreed  upon  that  point. 

Ill 
REASSURANCE 

"  Now  then,"  said  the  man  sternly  when  she  had 
glanced  through  the  letter. 

"  I  always  knew  this  would  happen  one  day," 
she  said  quietly.  "Yes,  he  wrote  it.  He  wrote 
others  and  I  destroyed  them.  It  was  careless  of 
me  to  let  this  fall  into  your  hands.  Well,  what 
will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  man.  "  I  think  I  shall 
kill  you." 

"That  would  be  one  way,"  she  said  drearityj 
tearing  the  letter  in  her  hands  into  little  pieces  as 
she  spoke.  "  Perhaps  it  would  be  the  best  way  for 
me — not  for  you,  nor — " 


222  STORIES  IN  GREY 

The  man  interrupted  her.  "  I  shan't  kill  you  till 
I've  wrung  the  truth  out  of  you." 

"  You  would  never  believe  the  truth  now  if  you 
heard  it." 

"Tell  it  me." 

"The  truth  is  that  I  love  you."  She  dropped 
the  little  bits  of  torn  letter — a  few  at  a  time — into 
the  basket  by  her  writing-table. 

"Indeed?"  the  man  sneered.  "And  that 
letter  ? " 

"Is  it  so  hard  to  explain ?  Vanity  at  the  age  of 
forty-one  requires  a  little  reassurance.  The  letter 
was  a  form  of  reassurance.  I  am  forty-one,  you 
know,  even  if  I  don't  quite  look  it." 

"  And  you  dare  to  tell  me  that  you  love  me  ?  " 
He  seemed  less  resolute ;  there  had  been  sincerity 
in  her  voice  and  look  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  do  !  I  do  !  I  do  !  I  think  there  are  just  two 
people  in  the  world  for  whom  I  would  give  my 
life.  Mona  is  one,  and  you  are  the  other.  You 
and  I  have  been  married  for  twenty  years,  and 
romance  does  not  live  as  long  as  that.  We  may 
as  well  admit  that  and  not  grumble  at  it ;  it's  silly 
to  grumble  at  the  inevitable.  But  if  ardent 
romance  has  gone,  love  has  not.  The  rock  is 
colder  than  the  flame,  but  the  rock  endures.  You 
are  the  father  of  my  Mona.  I  nursed  you  when 
you  were  so  ill.  I've  had  pride  in  your  success 
and  been  ever  so  sorry  when  you  were  disappointed. 
You  do  many  things  for  me  every  day.  We  suit 
one  another,  and  we  don't  quarrel.  And  I  know 
you  so  well,  too — I  often  know  just  what  you  will 


MINIATURES  223 

say  before  you  speak.  I  know  you  all  by  heart 
and  in  my  heart.  How  could  I  help  loving  you  ? 
And  you  loved  me  too." 

"  Until  this,  strangely  enough,  I  believed  that 
you  loved  me,  although — " 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Listen,  please.  I  must  go  through  with  this. 
You  say  that  what  you  have  told  me  is  true.  Now 
I  must  know  the  rest  of  the  truth.  Tell  me  about 
this  man.  Tell  me  everything  that — " 

He  stopped  abruptly  as  a  servant  entered  the 
room  with  a  telegram.  His  face  changed  as  he 
read  it.  He  said  quietly  that  he  would  send  the 
answer  himself  later.  As  the  servant  closed 
the  door  again  the  woman  sprang  from  her 
place. 

"  It's  bad  news,"  she  said.  "  I  know  it— I  read 
it  in  your  face.  It's  Mona,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  A  serious  accident.  They  want  you  to 
come  at  once."  He  glanced  at  the  clock.  "  You 
will  just  have  time  to  catch  the  3.30.  Be  quick, 
I'll  see  about  the  carriage  for  you." 

She  was  soon  ready.  He  found  her  standing 
before  her  dressing-table,  crying. 

"  My  Mona  ! "  she  said,  "  she  was  to  have  come 
home  for  her  birthday  to-morrow.  I'd  been  buy- 
ing things  for  her.  I'd — " 

"  Don't ! "  he  said  gently.     "  Come  now,  please." 

She  looked  at  him.  "  Why  ? "  she  said,  "  are 
you  coming  too  ?  " 

"Yes,  I'm  coming  with  you." 

She  could  not   speak,  but   her   lips   made   the 


224  STORIES  IN  GREY 

word,  "Thanks."      One  hand  stole  out  and  just 
touched  his  sleeve,  lightly  and  shyly. 

A  month  later  they  were  still  away  from  home. 
During  that  month  Mona  had  come  very  near  to 
death  and  had  turned  backward  to  life  again. 
She  was  near  now  to  complete  recovery.  One 
day  she  told  her  mother  that  the  really  glorious 
thing  was  that  the  accident  had  not  in  any 
way  injured  her  personal  appearance. 

"  You're  quite  beautiful,"  said  her  mother,  "  but 
you  mustn't  be  vain.  There's  nothing  more  natural 
or  more  dangerous." 

"  But  why  dangerous  ?  " 

"  Because  when  you  grow  to  be  an  old  woman 
like  me—" 

"  But  you're  not  the  least  little  bit  old." 

"  Listen.  If  you're  vain,  when  you  grow  to  be 
an  old  woman,  just  exactly  like  me,  you  may  want 
reassurance.  You  understand  that  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least  bit." 

"  I  didn't  think  you  would." 

Mona  laughed. 

That  evening  in  the  garden  the  woman  found 
her  husband  and  sat  down  by  his  side.  "  Mona's 
getting  on  splendidly,"  she  said.  "  She  will  come 
down  to-morrow." 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  kindly  eyes.  They 
had  been  through  the  fire  together  and  he  saw  her 
heart  as  proved  gold.  He  drew  her  to  him  and 
kissed  her,  and  she  sighed  the  happy  sigh  of  a 
forgiven  woman.  Of  that  letter  and  its  writer  no 


MINIATURES  225 

word  was  ever  spoken  again  by  either  of  them.  He 
asked  for  no  confession  and  she  made  none.  The 
years  passed  on  with  placid  happiness  for  them. 


IV 

THE  LUCKY  WOMAN 

WHEN  they  were  respectively  of  the  ages  of 
eighteen  and  nineteen  it  becomes  necessary  for  the 
two  Miss  Venners  to  do  something  for  themselves. 
They  were  orphans,  and  they  divided  between  them 
a  fortune  of  £50  a  year.  The  elder  and  plainer  of 
the  two,  Ellen  Venner,  took  her  own  strong  line  at 
once.  She  married  a  Dissenting  minister  and 
made  for  herself  a  little  home  at  Brixton.  The 
more  vulgar  of  her  acquaintances  said  that  it  was 
no  great  catch. 

Beatrice,  the  younger  sister,  was  fortunate 
enough  to  obtain  the  post  of  governess  to  Mrs 
Pawling's  three  dear  little  boys ;  moreover,  she 
retained  her  post,  and  won  for  herself  some  portion 
of  the  respect  and  goodwill  of  Mr  and  Mrs  Pawling. 
The  three  dear  little  boys  kicked  her  with  almost 
unnecessary  profusion  and  learnt  very  little  from 
her.  But  then  boys  will  be  boys  and,  if  we  are  to 
be  frank,  it  must  be  admitted  that  Beatrice  Venner 
had  very  little  to  teach.  She  had  good  food,  she 
had  £30  a  year  over  and  above  her  private  income, 
she  had  occasional  holidays  and  two  evening 
dresses,  and  in  course  of  time  a  still  further  bless- 
ing was  to  befall  her. 


226  STORIES  IN  GREY 

The  further  blessing  came  when  she  had  been 
with  the  Pawlings  for  about  four  years,  and  it  was 
beginning  to  be  said  by  papa  and  mamma  that  the 
eldest  of  the  dear  little  boys  certainly  ought  to  go 
to  school  now.  As  he  was  by  far  the  hardest  and 
most  persistent  kicker  of  the  three,  Beatrice  heard 
this  without  regret ;  a  governess  would  still  be 
wanted  for  the  other  two.  It  was  at  this  time  that 
Mr  Pawling' s  old  friend,  Mr  Yardley,  came  to  stay 
at  the  house. 

Mr  Yardley  was  a  youth  of  about  forty-five,  by 
profession  a  stockbroker,  unmarried,  priding  him- 
self somewhat  on  a  gallant  manner  with  the  ladies. 
He  was  chubby,  tubby,  and  clean-shaven.  His 
hair  was  very  thin  on  the  top  of  his  head  and  he 
took  something  for  it.  He  had  an  income  of 
.£2000  a  year  and  the  most  commonplace  mind  in 
the  City,  and  he  enjoyed  both  of  them  thoroughly. 
His  was  a  mind  that  would  never  make  a  fortune 
or  come  to  wreck.  He  was  distinctly  satisfied 
with  himself.  I  do  not  know  whether  his  friends 
and  intimate  relations  had  told  him  so,  or  whether 
he  had  found  it  all  out  for  himself,  but  at  the 
moment  when  he  came  on  that  visit  to  the  Paw- 
lings  the  decision  was  firm  and  hot  within  him 
that  he  must  not  lead  this  gay  butterfly  life  any 
longer.  He  must  settle  down. 

His  gallant  but  perfectly  polite  eye  fell  upon 
Beatrice  Venner.  In  the  drawing-room  after 
dinner  he  inquired  if  she  was  fond  of  music,  and 
added,  as  he  always  did,  that  he  himself  was 
devoted  to  it,  though  he  was  no  performer.  Pulled 


MINIATURES  227 

up  somewhat  short  by  Beatrice's  frank  confession 
that  she  did  not  care  for  music  in  the  least,  he 
added,  with  a  reasonable  desire  to  please,  that  he 
himself  knew  that  there  were  other  things,  and 
that  he  could  get  along  very  well  without  it.  The 
conversation  passed  to  other  topics.  That  day, 
and  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  it  was  quite 
obvious  to  Mrs  Pawling  that  Mr  Yardley  was 
paying  marked  attention  to  the  governess. 

There  was  no  illegitimate  secrecy  about  the  man. 
That  evening  in  the  smoking-room  he  explained 
portentously  to  Mr  Pawling  his  decision  to  marry 
Mr  Pawling's  governess. 

"  Good  heavens !  you  don't  say  so  ? "  said  Mr 
Pawling.  "Well,"  he  added,  "she's  a  very  good 
girl,  and  this  will  be  a  rare  bit  of  luck  for  her." 

Beatrice  Venner  accepted  the  rare  bit  of  luck 
with  meekness  and  gratitude.  It  was  true  that 
she  was  not  in  the  least  in  love  with  Mr  Yardley, 
but  she  admired  his  income  and  his  other  estimable 
qualities.  Certainly,  too,  she  was  not  in  love  with 
anybody  else.  She  received  many  congratulations. 
The  letter  from  her  sister  Ellen  was  of  a  somewhat 
subacid  character,  implying  that  she  did  not 
expect  that  they  would  see  much  of  Beatrice  down 
at  Brixton  after  this.  She  also  added  that  con- 
scientious scruples  would  not  allow  her  husband 
and  herself  to  be  present  at  a  wedding  in  a  church. 
This  did  not  prevent  Beatrice  from  being  married 
in  a  church  in  a  beautful  white  dress  and  a  beauti- 
ful lace  veil,  with  two  bridesmaids,  with  the 
youngest  Pawling  boy  as  a  page,  with  The- Voice- 


228  STORIES  IN  GREY 

that-breathed-o'er-Eden   and,   generally  speaking, 
with  pomp. 

She  was  quite  happy  in  a  placid  way  for  some 
time  after  her  marriage,  and  she  did  not  drop  her 
sister  down  at  Brixton.  Beatrice  had  no  children, 
and  her  sister  had  many.  Beatrice  thought  of 
adopting  one  of  them.  Her  husband,  kindly  but 
firmly,  thought  not.  She  had  been  married  eight 
years  and  the  edge  of  the  luxuries  had  worn  off ; 
her  remarkable  luck  had  become  quite  common- 
place, and  she  was  beginning  to  find  her  husband 
a  very  slow  man  with  a  tendency  to  hypochondria, 
and  one  day  she  went  to  Brixton  to  her  sister's 
squalid  abode  to  play  a  game  with  her  sister's  new 
baby,  which  was  a  perfect  beauty. 

She  was  late  in  returning,  and  found  that  her 
husband  had  already  got  back  from  the  City  and 
was  going  round  the  gardens.  It  was  springtime, 
and  she  found  him  standing  in  the  orchard,  his 
frock  coat  and  his  silk  hat  still  on  him,  looking 
grotesquely  out  of  place.  He  pointed  out  the 
fruit  prospects  with  gravity  and  with  some  know- 
ledge of  the  subject.  "  It's  a  queer  thing,"  he  said, 
"  that  this  one  tree  has  got  no  blossom  on  it  at  all." 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  snapped  furiously. 

He  stared  at  her  with  his  little  eyes  wide  open. 

"No,  I  am  not  glad,"  she  added  quickly,  and 
pressed  her  lips  to  the  rough  bark  of  the  tree  and 
kissed  it. 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  said  in  gentle  remonstrance, 
"  have  you  gone  quite  mad  ?  " 


MINIATURES  229 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  but  I  think  I  shall."  Then  she 
ran  into  the  house,  and  he  followed  laboriously  to 
inquire  what  she  was  crying  about. 


V 

THE  WOMAN   IN  THE  ROAD 

HENDERSON  drove  slowly.  There  were  several 
small  carts  in  the  road,  driven  in  the  indolent, 
unintelligent,  rustic  fashion,  and  little  groups  of 
villagers.  All  were  going  in  the  same  direction, 
turning  in  at  the  gates  of  the  drive.  Henderson 
had  seen  the  notices  of  the  sale  by  auction  dis- 
played on  the  outer  walls  of  the  garden.  Every- 
thing apparently  was  to  be  sold,  and  everything 
included  a  motor-car.  It  might  be  worth  while  to 
look  at  it.  Henderson  wanted  a  more  powerful 
car  than  the  one  he  was  driving,  and  there  might 
be  other  things  that  he  would  like  to  buy.  In  any 
case  these  auction  sales  were  frequently  amusing. 

A  dealer  came  up  to  him  as  he  stepped  out  of 
his  car  and  asked  if  he  could  execute  any  com- 
missions. He  took  Henderson  to  see  the  big 
motor-car.  "  Mr  Jasper  only  drove  it  about  a 
month,"  said  the  dealer. 

"  Why  is  it  being  sold  ?  " 

"Everything  is  being  sold.  Mr  Jasper  is  a 
bankrupt  and  in  prison  now." 

It  was  a  modern,  up-to-date,  36-h.p.  car,  and 
Henderson  went  over  it  with  an  engineer's  critical 
eye  and  could  find  no  fault.  When  his  prolonged 


230  STORIES  IN  GREY 

examination  was  finished  he  decided  that  if  it 
went  for  £400  he  would  buy  it.  He  believed  that 
it  would  fetch  much  more,  but  at  these  country 
sales  one  never  knew. 

He  gave  the  dealer  his  instructions  and  the 
dealer  bought  the  car  for  him  for  £95. 

"Now  then,"  said  Henderson  to  the  dealer, 
"  tell  me  what's  wrong." 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong  that  a  sensible  person 
would  take  any  notice  of.  These  villagers  get 
ideas  into  their  heads.  Mr  Jasper  wasn't  liked 
even  before  that  thing  happened,  and — " 

"Look  here!  What's  this?"  said  Henderson. 
He  unwound  a  few  long  black  hairs  that  were 
entangled  in  the  acetylene  lamp. 

"  Bless  my  soul ! "  exclaimed  the  dealer.  "  They 
must  have  come  from  the  woman  that  he  killed." 

"  Ran  a  woman  down  in  the  road,  did  he  ?  How 
was  that  ?  " 

"  He  was  bad-tempered  always,  and  that  day  he 
was  drunk  too.  I  suppose  she  didn't  skip  out  of 
the  road  fast  enough  for  him." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  this  before  ?  " 

"  I  supposed  you  knew  it.  Everybody  about 
here  knows  it.  Why,  it  was  because  of  what  she 
said  just  before  she  died  that  no  one  would  bid  to- 
day. She  said  that  she  knew  she  was  going  to  die, 
but  she  was  not  done  with  that  car  yet.  She  was 
a  gipsy,  and  some  people  think  that  gipsies  can 
foretell  things.  It's  all  stuff  and  nonsense  to  my 
mind." 

"  It's  absolute  stuff  and  nonsense.     Why  didn't 


MINIATURES  231 

you  buy  the  car  yourself?  You  might  have  made 
money  on  it." 

"Might,  or  might  not.  It's  not  my  line  of 
business.  I  know  nothing  about  motors,  and  I've 
got  no  capital  to  put  into  a  thing  like  that." 

A  few  days  later  Henderson  got  his  big  car 
home.  He  was  delighted  with  it.  He  liked  to 
feel  the  great  power  under  him  and  to  compare 
the  pace  at  which  he  could  take  the  steepest  hills 
now  with  what  he  had  been  able  to  do  on  the 
smaller  car.  This  smaller  car  he  sold  for  consider- 
ably more  than  he  had  paid  at  the  auction,  and  on 
the  whole  he  considered  that  it  had  been  a  very 
good  day's  work  for  him,  and  blessed  the 
superstitions  and  prejudices  of  ignorant  people. 

The  rest  of  the  story  came  out  in  the  evidence 
which  Henderson's  driver,  a  Frenchman  who 
spoke  no  English,  gave  at  the  inquest.  The 
interpreter  was  asked  more  than  once  by  the 
coroner  if  he  was  quite  certain  that  he  was  giving 
the  man's  evidence  •  correctly.  The  evidence  was 
that  Henderson  was  driving  fast  on  a  straight 
stretch  of  road  with  nothing  in  sight.  There  was 
a  stone  wall  on  his  left.  Suddenly  Henderson 
gave  a  loud  cry,  pulled  the  wheel  hard  over  to 
the  left,  and  dashed  into  this  wall.  By  some 
miracle  the  Frenchman  was  not  injured  in  the 
least,  and  he  did  the  best  he  could  for  his  master, 
who  lay  unconscious.  In  a  minute  or  two 
Henderson  opened  his  eyes  and  spoke.  He  said, 
"  Did  we  go  over  her  ? "  The  driver  told  him 


232  STORIES  IN  GREY 

there  had  been  nobody  there.  "  Of  course,  there 
was,"  said  Henderson.  "  She  jumped  out  suddenly 
into  the  middle  of  the  road,  right  in  front  of  the 
car — a  swarthy  sort  of  woman,  looked  like  a 
tramp."  He  tried  to  say  more,  but  again  became 
unconscious,  and  died  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness 
an  hour  later. 

VI 

TWO  MEN 

THE  murderer  generally  knows  that  he  is  a 
murderer  ;  the  vain  man — who,  from  a  social  point 
of  view,  is  frequently  the  greater  sinner — never 
knows  that  he  is  vain,  unless  somebody  tells  him. 
Even  then  he  must  be  told  with  considerable  force, 
and  the  hypothesis  that  the  teller  is  jealous  must 
be  too  absurd  to  be  tenable.  Richard  Perral  was 
convinced  somewhat  suddenly  of  vanity  and  his 
other  defects  by  Rhoda  Lestrange. 

The  social  manner  may  be  only  skin  deep,  but 
it  is  a  tough  skin.  It  takes  more  than  a  scratch 
to  get  through  it.  The  natural  Rhoda  came 
through  one  night  at  a  dance  when  Perral  made 
her  angry  without  intending  it.  When  a  boy 
suddenly  tears  off  the  boxing-gloves  and  wishes 
to  continue  with  bare  fists,  there  is  generally 
somebody  handy  to  stop  him.  But  there 
happened  to  be  nobody  to  stop  Rhoda — I  doubt 
if  anybody  could  have  stopped  her.  A  moment 
before  she  had  been  smiling,  and  saying  the 
usual  things.  And  before  Perral  could  grasp 


MINIATURES  233 

what  the  reason  was — though  she  soon  told  him 
— she  was  being  absolutely  truthful,  absolutely 
merciless,  absolutely  brutal.  His  first  feelings 
were  those  that  he  would  have  had  if  a  woman 
to  whom  he  was  talking  had  suddenly  lost  all 
control  of  herself  through  drink  or  madness. 
But  those  feelings  changed  later.  He  was  swept 
out  of  momentary  horror  into  lasting  shame. 

He  had  been  speaking  of  Lucy  Wyllinger's 
engagement,  which  he  professed  to  find  incompre- 
hensible. Rhoda  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Lucy's, 
and  understood  the  engagement  perfectly,  but  as 
she  had  no  intention  of  telling  Perral  anything 
whatever  about  it,  she  said  that  she  thought  so, 
too. 

Perral  suggested  that  pique  might  be  the 
explanation.  "In  fact,"  he  added  fatuously,  "  I 
have  heard  it  hinted,  though  it  is  ridiculous 
enough,  that  I  am  to  blame." 

The  social  manner  still  held.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Did  you  advise  her  in  any 
way  ?  " 

"  No  ;  not  that." 

Rhoda's  eyes  flashed. 

"Since  you  are  so  fond  of  explanations,  I  will 
tell  you  one  or  two  things  that  you  had  better 
know — things  about  yourself." 

"  Delighted,"  said  Perral,  who  had  not  seen  the 
eyes  or  grasped  the  situation. 

"For  instance,  I  think  you  do  not  know  that 
you  are  the  common  joke  of  the  set  that,  by  no 
means  for  your  sake,  still  tolerates  you.  I  have 


234  STORIES  IN  GREY 

seen  you  leave  people  whom  you  evidently  thought 
that  your  bragging  had  impressed  mightily,  and  I 
have  been  sorry  that  you  did  not  hear  what  was 
said  when  you  had  gone.  I  suppose  you  cannot 
help  it.  It  is  one  of  your  natural  disadvantages  ; 
it  is  one  of  many.  You  need  not  stare  at  me.  I 
know  perfectly  well  that  I  have  lost  my  temper. 
I  hope  I  shall  lose  my  temper  again  if  ever  again 
I  hear  a  cad  lying  about  a  woman  to  satisfy  his 
silly  vanity ;  it  is  not  likely ;  one  is  generally 
careful  not  to  meet  your  type.  If  a  woman  talks 
to  you  at  dinner,  to  satisfy  conventions  and  her 
hostess,  you  think  that  she  is  in  love  with  you.  If 
you  had  not  been  as  dense  as  a  millstone  you 
must  have  seen  how  all  women  —  and  Miss 
Wyllinger  particularly  —  worked  and  plotted  to 
avoid  your  society.  You  shall  hear  presently 
what  they  say  of  you — of  your  appearance,  your 
manners,  your  habit  of  drinking  too  much,  your 
blunders,  your  brag,  and  your  fancied  accomplish- 
ments. You  do  not  even  know  the  nickname  by 
which  everybody  calls  you.  But  you  shall  know 
it ;  you  are  fond  of  explanations.  Afterwards, 
even  your  vanity  will  not  tempt  you  to  say  that 
Miss  Wyllinger  or  anybody  else  was  in  love  with 
you." 

Perral  had  gone  very  white.  "  I  can  see  that  I 
have  offended  you,  but  I  think  that  there  is  a 
misunderstanding.  I  did  not  say  that  Miss 
Wyllinger  was  in  love  with  me ;  I  even  expressed 
my  opinion  that  the  idea  was  ridiculous." 

"  You  did  not  say  it  ?     No,  because  you  thought 


MINIATURES  235 

it  would  impress  me  more  if  you  said  that  others 
said  it,  and  you  did  not  mean  me  to  think  you 
ridiculous.  You  are  amusing  when  you  try  to 
veil  your  brag.  You  always  do  it  so  clumsily. 
But  I  thought  you  would  make  some  such  spirit- 
less excuse.  Well,  let  me  tell  you  some  true 
stories — things  you  have  done  and  things  other 
people  have  said  of  you." 

That  was  where  (he  told  himself  afterwards)  he 
should  have  left  her,  but  he  had  a  morbid  desire 
now  to  know  the  very  worst ;  for  all  the  vainest 
men  live  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  of  self-abase- 
ment. She  gave  him  chapter  and  verse,  drily  and 
bitterly — she  must  have  hated  him  for  a  long  time 
and  made  notes  of  things  in  her  mind.  The  image 
of  himself  as  he  had  supposed  himself,  collapsed  in 
fragments ;  out  of  them  arose  a  ghastly  figure — 
himself  as  he  was  and  now  knew  that  he  was. 
For  a  moment  he  had  a  sense  of  injustice ;  he  had 
said  a  silly  thing,  from  a  kind  of  instinctive  vanity 
and  without  planning  it  consciously,  but  did  it 
merit  this  virulent  punishment?  What  did  it 
matter?  Socially,  he  was  done  and  finished. 
Rhoda  Lestrange  would  cut  him,  and  she  would 
take  good  care  not  to  be  alone  in  her  action.  He 
found  himself  standing  up,  speechless.  He  got  out 
somehow. 

After  the  last  carriage  had  rolled  away  in  the 
early  morning,  he  was  still  awake.  He  sat  and 
thought  over  the  comparative  values  of  suicide,  the 
Catholic  Church,  active  service,  the  life  of  a  scholar 
and  a  recluse.  Underneath  them  all  was  the  idea 


236  STORIES  IN  GREY 

that  he  had  to  get  away  from  them  ;  but  primarily 
he  had  to  get  away  from  himself. 

A  few  months  later  he  left  England  for  New 
York.  He  returned,  three  years  afterwards,  shy, 
quiet,  unselfish,  and  wealthy.  He  then  married 
Rhoda  Lestrange. 

And  if  this  seems  curious,  remember  that  vanity 
is  a  vice  with  a  cognate  virtue,  which  is  imagination  ; 
and  that  women,  and  men,  have  a  tendency  to 
admire  their  own  work. 


VII 

THE  ENEMY 

(From  the  Letters  of  Lady  Raffenstall>  formerly 
Miss  Hilda  Bruntori} 

FIRST   EXTRACT 

(Bearing  an  Address  at  Littlehamptori) 

You  must,  of  course,  write  and  let  me  know  about 
everything.  One  feels  so  much  out  of  it  in  this 
forsaken  place.  For  that  matter  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  do  not  feel  even  more  out  of  it  when  I  am  in 
London  nowadays.  The  plain  fact,  which  to  you, 
my  dear  friend,  I  may  mention  quite  candidly,  is 
that  I  am  definitely  middle-aged.  I  am  just  forty  ; 
I  have  grown  fatter,  or,  as  most  of  my  dear  friends 
are  probably  putting  it  at  this  present  moment,  I 
have  "  coarsened."  On  the  whole,  it  is  perhaps  as 
well  that  the  illness  of  my  children  and  the  usual 
doctor's  formula  have  brought  me  to  a  hideous  and 
minstrel-haunted  seaside.  When  I  am  in  London 


MINIATURES  237 

I  am  so  much  less  sought  after  nowadays  that  I 
grow  full  of  bitterness.  After  one  has  had  the 
feast  one  should  lose  the  hunger.  If  I  had  the 
making  of  this  world  I  would  make  it  differently 
in  many  respects.  I  did  have  the  feast ;  they  say 
that  I  have  two  suicides  to  my  credit  and  some 
minor  heart-breakages.  I  could  do  what  I  liked  ; 
everybody  was  always  trying  to  get  me  to  go  to 
their  things.  I  was  in  the  Academy  three  years 
running,  and  always  by  a  first-rate  man.  And  the 
kind  people  say  that  I  must  have  been  a  beauty  once, 
and  the  unkind  people  say  that  I  have  "  coarsened." 
By  the  way,  do  you  remember  the  portrait  that 
Hallom  did  of  me  fifteen  years  ago,  just  before  I 
was  married  ?  He  would  not  sell  it,  and  Harry 
was  rather  mad  about  it.  Well,  Hallom's  dead 
and  has  left  the  portrait  specifically  to  Harry  in 
his  will.  It  is  the  one  where  I  am  all  in  white, 
playing  with  a  kitten.  My  God  !  What  a  fool  I 
should  look  all  in  white,  playing  with  a  kitten  now  ! 
However,  Harry  is  delighted  to  have  got  the 
portrait,  and  writes  that  he  has  hung  it  in  the 
library  at  our  house  in  Hill  Street.  He  does  not 
come  down  here,  by  the  way,  which  is  scandalous 
of  him.  However,  he  writes  letters  inquiring 
affectionately  about  the  children.  How  one  loses 
everything  when  one  is  middle-aged  ! 

This  is  a  boresome  letter,  all  about  myself;  but 
you  know  what  the  seaside  is.  There  is  nothing 
in  one's  surroundings  which  will  bear  thinking 
about  for  one  moment.  A  woman  with  a  fringe 
and  a  portable  harmonium — neither  of  which  suits 


238  STORIES  IN  GREY 

her  in  the  least — has  just  planted  herself  in  the 
street  outside  these  windows,  and  a  husky  baritone, 
with  Cockney  accent,  is  singing,  "  There's  only  one 
girl  hin  this  world  for  me  ! "  What  a  life  !  Yes, 
the  children  are  better,  thanks.  Write  again  soon. 


SECOND    EXTRACT 

(Bearing  the  Address  of  a  House  in  Hill  Street,    W.) 

WHEN  one  deteriorates  in  value  one  ought,  I 
suppose,  to  become  much  cheaper.  I  am  seriously 
thinking  of  becoming  much  cheaper.  I  could  still, 
on  the  title,  get  a  parcel  of  little  Jews  and  people 
from  the  City  to  run  about  after  me.  No,  I  was 
joking,  and  not  in  the  best  taste.  In  five  years' 
time  I  shall  be  all  resignation  and  black  cashmere ; 
a  peaceful,  grey-haired  old  lady  with  a  saintly  life 
and  a  spotless  reputation,  such  as  is  acquired  by 
those  who  can  neither  tempt  nor  be  tempted. 
That,  again,  is  rather  horrible,  and  I  am  inclined 
to  write  no  more  until  I  am  in  a  better  frame  of 
mind.  However,  let's  try  and  look  at  the  bright 
side  of  things. 

The  children  are  quite  well,  and  that  is  a  blessing. 
Harry  gives  me  no  trouble  whatever.  Of  course  I 
knew  he  was  a  maniac  when  I  married  him ;  I 
rather  liked  him  for  it.  My  picture  by  Hallom  in 
the  library  has  flowers  before  it  perpetually,  and 
lighted  candles  in  the  evening.  He  spends  most 
of  the  day  there  with  the  door  locked.  Sometimes 
for  two  or  three  days  I  never  exchange  three  words 


MINIATURES  239 

with  him.  This  is  rather  funny,  as  we  are  both 
living  in  the  same  house.  I  really  fancy  he  must 
be  a  little  mad.  I  could  understand  his  neglecting 
me,  which  he  does  in  the  kindest  and  most  gentle- 
manly way,  since  I  am  middle-aged  and  fat  and 
ugly— or  shall  we  say  "  coarsened  ?  "  Men  don't 
age  so  quickly  as  women,  and  he  is  still  far  from 
being  an  old  man.  That  is  why  I  want  to  know 
who  the  enemy  is.  When  he  stopped  caring  a 
pin's  head  about  me,  who  was  it  for  whom  he 
began  to  care  all  the  world  ?  Who  is  the  enemy  ? 
I  do  not  say  this  by  way  of  complaint.  As  I  said, 
I  am  looking  now  at  the  bright  side  of  things.  So 
far  as  I  can  make  out,  there  is  not  at  this  moment 
in  the  world  a  single  woman  for  whom  Harry 
cares  twopence.  But  then,  as  I  said,  he  is  a 
maniac. 

THIRD    EXTRACT 

{Bearing  an  Address  at  Grandtoivn^  Morayshire) 

I  AM  getting  seriously  annoyed  with  Harry.  I 
hate  to  see  money  fooled  away.  He  is  not  a 
pauper,  but  his  expenditure  should  at  least  be 
reasonable.  The  children  and  I,  with  the  servants, 
came  on  here  first.  He  followed  a  few  days 
afterwards,  and  he  followed  in  a  special  train  if  you 
please.  When  I  remonstrated  with  him  on  the 
absurdity  of  it,  he  said  that  he  did  not  take  the 
train  for  his  own  sake.  As  there  was  nobody  else 
in  it,  except  his  valet  and  the  railway  officials,  I 
should  be  glad  to  know  for  whose  sake  he  did  take 


240  STORIES  IN  GREY 

it.  By  the  way,  as  a  further  sign  of  his  mania,  in 
that  same  train  he  brought  with  him  Hallom's 
portrait  of  me  from  our  house  in  Hill  Street.  The 
same  silly  nonsense  with  the  flowers  and  candles 
and  the  locked  room  has  gone  on  here.  At  first  I 
was  pleased,  even  a  little  flattered,  by  his  adoration 
of  this  portrait,  but  I  confess  that  it  begins  to 
madden  me  exceedingly  now.  One  or  two  of  the 
people  staying  in  the  house  have  made  little  jokes 
about  it  which  I  resented  very  much.  One  young 
idiot  spoke  of  the  portrait  to  me  the  other  night  as 
my  only  possible  rival.  When  the  truth  is  ex- 
pounded to  you  by  a  fool  it  is  even  more  infuriating 
than  the  truth  generally  is. 

I  like  this  place.  I  do  not  care  if  I  never 
go  back  to  London  again.  I  hate  Society  ;  I  hate 
most  things.  I  think  I  shall  hate  Harry,  only  I 
am  hardly  on  familiar  enough  terms  with  him  to 
do  that. 

FOURTH    EXTRACT 

(Dated  a  Month  later>  from  the  same  Address) 

WE  have  had  a  scene.  That  is  my  great  piece  of 
news :  a  very  serious  scene.  Partly  as  a  kind  of 
practical  joke,  and  partly  to  satisfy  my  own  feeling, 
last  night,  while  the  men  were  still  lingering  over 
the  cigarettes,  I  got  to  the  shrine  of  my  sacred 
portrait  of  his  worship,  and  cut  it  out  of  the  frame 
and  burnt  it.  An  oil  painting,  by  the  way,  takes  a 
good  deal  of  burning  :  it  has  to  be  done  in  sections. 
I  was  just  finishing  off  the  last  little  piece ;  it  had 


MINIATURES  241 

my  hand  on  it  with  the  engagement  ring  on  one  of 
the  fingers,  when  Harry  and  the  rest  came  in.  As 
I  said  to  him  afterwards,  I  do  not  in  the  least 
mind  his  losing  his  temper,  and  it  is  quite  im- 
material to  me  whether  he  is  in  a  good  temper  or 
a  bad,  but  I  will  not  have  him  lose  his  temper  with 
me  before  people.  Last  night  it  was  really  most  em- 
barrassing. You  never  heard  such  a  volley  of  abuse. 
Nobody  knew  what  to  do  or  where  to  look  or  what  to 
say.  I  laughed  at  him  all  the  time.  Amongst  other 
kindly  remarks  of  his  was  one  that  he  would  much 
sooner  I  had  cut  myself  upin  pieces  and  burned  them. 
Since  writing  the  above  I  have  seen  Harry.  He 
declines  to  live  in  the  same  house  with  me  any 
more,  and  has  gone  back  to  town  for  the  present. 
The  funny  thing  is  he  says  he  cannot  stand,  even 
for  a  moment,  the  presence  of  a  woman  whom 
jealousy  has  rendered  absolutely  insane.  If  it 
comes  to  a  question  of  sanity  I  may  have  some- 
thing to  say.  There  will  be  a  separation,  I  suppose, 
judicial  or  otherwise  ;  I  do  not  much  care. 

P.S. — Thanks  for  the  pamphlet  on  Diet  for  the 
Obese ;  I  shan't  trouble  about  it  though.  I  think 
I  shall  live  on  the  Continent  in  future :  that  is 
the  place  for  the  used-up.  However,  I  have  killed 
the  enemy  now. 

VIII 
IDYLL  IN   A  CHURCHYARD 

THE   churchyard    stood   well    above  the   village. 
The  nearest  way  to  it  was  by  a  path  over  fields. 
Q 


242  STORIES  IN  GREY 

At  present  it  lay  very  quiet  in  the  cool  of  the 
summer  evening  until  the  quiet  was  broken  by  the 
creak  of  two  large  new  boots.  A  man  of  forty- 
five,  with  a  complicated  face,  in  deep  mourning, 
and  with  a  lavish  band  upon  his  hat  came  creaking 
round  the  corner  of  the  church  and  then  creaked 
across  the  grass  to  a  well-kept  grave.  The  face 
was  complicated  because  it  told  such  different 
things — years  of  small  commerce  in  the  country 
had  lent  it  much  of  the  parochial  and  the  com- 
monplace, but  the  eyes  were  those  of  a  tired 
epicure. 

The  tombstone  told  in  gilt  lettering  that  it  was 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  Lavinia,  for  seventeen 
years  the  pious  and  devoted  wife  of  Alexander 
Hythe.  The  date  of  the  decease  was  very  recent. 
A  quotation  from  a  favourite  hymn  completed  the 
inscription.  The  man  removed  a  very  shiny  black 
glove,  a  glove  which  had  blue  high  lights  on  it  in 
the  sun,  and  began  to  pull  up  one  or  two  weeds, 
adjusted  the  cross  of  everlastings,  which  was  not 
quite  straight.  Then  he  drew  that  terrible  kid 
glove  on  again  and  folded  his  fat  hands  together 
and  closed  his  tearless  eyes. 

He  opened  his  eyes  again  as  he  heard  a  step  on 
the  gravel.  The  woman,  who  had  once  been  good- 
looking,  came  along  the  path  towards  him.  She 
was  neatly  dressed  in  a  brown  coat  and  skirt,  and 
she  had  small  feet  and  hands.  One  of  the  hands 
carried  a  bunch  of  white  roses.  She  came  across 
the  grass  to  the  mourner,  said  good-evening  timidly, 
and  feared  that  she  intruded.  Then  she  laid  her 


MINIATURES  243 

roses  on  the  grave  and  would  have  slipped  away, 
but  the  man  stopped  her. 

"  You  needn't  go,  Mrs  Burgess,"  he  said  heavily, 
"  not  at  least  so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"  I  just  wanted  to  leave  these  few  roses,"  she 
said.  "  You  see,  not  being  a  relation,  I  don't  wear 
any  mourning.  George,  in  fact,  objected  to  it  just 
for  the  funeral.  He  said  that  it  was  carrying 
things  too  far.  Still,  she  and  I  were  always  friends 
and —  But  I  do  feel  that  I  am  intruding.  It 
was  a  pity  I  chose  just  this  time." 

"  What  for  ? "  said  the  man,  almost  savagely. 
"You've  got  all  the  right  here  that  I  have,  and 
perhaps  more.  Pious  and  devoted  wife  it  says. 
She  was  pious  too.  I've  never  seen  the  weather 
yet  that  would  keep  her  out  of  this  church  Sunday 
morning  or  Sunday  evening,  not  while  she  had 
strength  to  walk." 

"  Devoted,  too,"  said  the  woman,  warmly. 

"  Yes,"  the  man  said  drearily,  "  Lavinia  was 
devoted  enough.  She  knew  her  place  and  never 
went  out  of  it.  She  had  always  got  a  sharp  eye  to 
my  interest.  How  I'm  to  replace  her  in  the  shop 
I  really  don't  know.  But — " 

"  Well,"  said  the  woman  a  little  eagerly. 

"  You  know,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  you  know  well 
enough.  Regular  hell,  that's  what  it  was,  and  I 
may  as  well  say  the  truth  about  it  to  some  living 
being  and  get  it  over.  It  was  your  fault  too." 

"  Mine  ?  "  the  woman  gasped. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man.  "I  was  a  boy  when  I 
married  her,  and  I  was  in  love  with  you  all  the 


244  STORIES  IN  GREY 

time.  I  never  told  you  so — I  never  breathed  a 
word  of  it  till  this  moment.  I  daresay  it  comes  as 
a  shock  to  you." 

"  I  never  knew  it,"  the  woman  said  huskily. 

"  How  should  you  ?  You  were  rather  a  cut 
above  me,  and  you  took  all  the  care  you  could  to 
keep  out  of  my  way.  I  wasn't  going  to  make  a 
fool  of  myself  then,  though  I  don't  seem  to  care  so 
much  now.  Lavinia  was  ready,  and  one  thing  led 
to  another.  Well,  I  wouldn't  put  a  lie  on  a  tomb- 
stone or  anywhere  else.  She  was  a  pious  and 
devoted  wife,  and  you  may  leave  it  at  that.  I  did 
my  duty  by  her  too.  This  last  illness,  money  was 
not  spared  I  can  tell  you.  I  could  show  you  the 
bills,  though  of  course  it's  no  use.  Some  of  the 
things  I  could  get  at  trade  prices,  but  not  chemist's 
stuff,  of  course.  You  may  say  that  she  had  every- 
thing she  wanted.  And  I've  had  nothing  that  I 
wanted — nothing.  Not  one  solitary  thing  all  my 
life." 

The  woman  looked  away  from  him  and  out  into 
the  distance.  She  spoke  hesitatingly.  "At  that 
time,  when  we  were  quite  young,  boy  and  girl 
together,  I  suppose  it  never  occurred  to  you — " 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  man.  And  as  he  looked  at 
her  he  knew. 

For  a  minute  or  two  neither  of  them  spoke. 

"  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  let  myself  go  like 
this,"  said  the  man,  shyly  and  apologetically. 
"When  one  has  kept  silence  for  so  many  years 
one  might  go  on  to  the  end.  I  should  have 
remembered  that  you  were  a  married  woman  too. 


MINIATURES  245 

I  ought  to  have  asked  after  your  husband.  No 
worse,  I  hope?" 

The  woman  nodded,  shivered,  and  began  to 
cry.  He  came  nearer  to  her,  and  she  ran  away 
from  him  down  the  path. 

Next  day  Mr  Hythe  made  some  inquiries  for  a 
woman  to  help  in  the  shop  to  do  the  work  that  his 
late  wife  had  done.  He  explained  that  it  would 
be  just  a  temporary  appointment. 


IX 

THE  LIFE  UNDERGROUND 

(From  the  Unpublished  Letters  of  Horace  Marsh 
of  Saxwold) 

So,  my  dear  Edward,  it  is  all  over.  My  sanity  is 
proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  lawyers  and  the 
medicine  men,  and  poor  Herbert  will  not  at  present 
have  the  management  of  my  affairs.  I  fear  he  is 
sadly  disappointed.  I  have  made  a  new  will 
to-day,  and  when  nature  calls  me  from  this  world 
and  the  contents  of  that  will  become  known,  he 
will  be  sadly  disappointed  again.  It  is  possible 
that  he  will  try  once  more  then.  The  old  stories 
of  the  Temple  of  Aphrodite  in  the  park  and  of  my 
underground  mansion  and  of  the  immense  sums 
that  I  have  squandered  on  them  will  be  brought 
out  again — anything  to  prove  that  I  was  not  of 
sound  disposing  mind.  Really  the  newspapers 
ought  to  subsidise  poor  Herbert.  He  gives  them 
such  stories. 


246  STORIES  IN  GREY 

And  what  will  you  say  in  my  defence  when  that 
day  comes  and  I  can  no  longer  speak  for  myself? 

You  have  an  easy  tolerance,  Edward.  You 
admit  that  I  have  spent  these  vast  sums,  and  that 
I  have  spent  them  on  objects  on  which  the  ordinary 
rich  man  would  not  care  to  spend  twopence.  But 
as  you  pointed  out  to  Herbert,  the  money  was 
mine  to  do  with  as  I  would,  nor  am  I,  in  spite  of 
all  the  expense,  ruined  in  fortune.  On  the  question 
of  my  desire  at  times  to  live  underground  you 
refused  to  see  any  evidence  of  madness  there. 
"  Every  man,"  you  added  truly,  "  has  some  eccen- 
tricity or  other." 

Yes,  I  am  sanguine  enough  and  optimistic 
enough  to  believe  that  even  the  most  commonplace 
of  mortals — a  governess  or  a  minor  poet — in  some 
respect,  mere  trifle  though  it  may  be,  is  differ- 
entiated from  the  others.  But  if  you  import  into 
that  word,  eccentricity,  any  hint  of  irrationality  or 
weakness,  then,  so  far  as  my  underground  life  is 
concerned,  I  join  issue  with  you.  I  have  my 
reasons  for  what  I  do. 

Nor  can  I  admit  that  I  am  so  very  unusual. 
The  temporary  withdrawal  from  the  world  is  a 
luxury  for  many  natures  and  a  necessity  for  some. 
It  may  be  the  desert  or  the  mountain -top,  or  the 
hermit's  cave  or,  as  in  my  own  case,  the  more 
complete  seclusion  of  an  underground  dwelling. 
One  would  hear  more  of  such  things  if  more  men 
had  the  courage  of  their  opinions  or  could  pay  the 
price  of  their  satisfaction. 

Imagine,  if  you  can,  all  that  the  iron  outer  doors 


MINIATURES  247 

of  the  descending  stairs  shut  out  for  me.  Down 
there  the  engines  of  the  world  are  stopped  and  the 
rattle  is  still.  There  is  no  fatal  recurrence  of  day 
and  night,  and  one  loses  that  intolerable  sense  of 
time  going  on  as  a  turning  wheel  in  a  vast  mill 
where  mortals  are  but  the  grain.  Down  there  it  is 
always  the  same  light  and  always  the  same  hour. 
The  past  that  I  spent  in  the  world  above  becomes 
to  me  quite  unreal,  and  the  present  moment  is 
perfect  rest.  And  the  future  ?  There  seems  to  be 
none.  The  engines  of  the  world  are  stopped  :  I 
am  no  longer  the  grain  in  the  mill,  I  am  "  the 
captain  of  my  soul."  Free-will  may  still  be  a 
delusion,  but  the  delusion  is  complete. 

You  shake  your  head  and  talk  of  neurasthenia  ; 
names  have  never  frightened  me.  You  may  call 
it  that  if  you  like,  and  you  may  call  my  life  under- 
ground the  treatment.  For  it  is  due  to  that  with- 
drawn and  secluded  life  that  I  can  come  back  to. 
the  world  sane  and  steady  and  convince  the 
medicine  men  and  disinherit  poor  Herbert.  Names 
do  not  frighten  me,  but  I  am  a  coward  before  facts. 
This  to  the  ordinary  man  is  an  idyllic  spot  in  the 
open  country — a  peaceful  resting-place  for  the 
over-civilised  and  over-tired.  It  is  not  so  to  me. 
It  is  full  of  torturing  facts.  I  stand  appalled  as 
much  before  the  needless  and  inevitable  fecundity 
as  before  the  pitiless  and  inevitable  destructiveness 
of  nature.  All  that  is  inevitable  is  to  me  terrify- 
ing. It  is  nothing  that  the  streams  run  downward 
and  that  the  stone  released  from  my  hand  falls  to 
the  ground  ;  but  it  is  everything  to  me  that  the 


248  STORIES  IN  GREY 

stream  must  run  downward  and  the  stone  must 
fall.  It  gives  me  no  sensation  of  beneficent  law 
and  order.  I  feel  as  I  were  being  carried  away,  I 
knew  not  whither,  on  some  machine  that  I  can 
neither  control  nor  understand.  I  am  frightened. 
And  just  as  a  terrified  child  buries  its  head  under 
the  bed-clothes,  so  I  go  to  my  underground  dwell- 
ing, the  expensive  construction  of  which  annoyed 
poor  Herbert  so  much. 

Do  not  tell  me — since  I  am  well  aware  of  it — 
that  time  goes  on  and  the  natural  laws  are  not 
suspended  below  ground.  I  know  it ;  but  down 
there  the  evidence  is  less  overpowering.  Do  not 
think  either  that  this  terror  is  always  with  me.  If 
it  had  been  so,  poor  Herbert  would  have  had  his 
way.  There  are  days  when  a  flower  is  to  me  the 
same  thing  of  beauty  and  fragrance  that  it  is  to 
others,  and  nights  when  I  can  listen  to  the  nightin- 
gales in  my  garden  with  joy.  I  can  talk  then 
without  great  trouble  of  local  politics  and  cricket 
scores  to  the  somewhat  indifferent  specimens  of 
my  species  that  live  in  this  neighbourhood.  I  am — 
to  use  your  favourite  word — normal.  And  then 
the  day  comes  when  I  can  see  nothing  in  the 
flower  but  a  grotesque  and  purposeless  reproduc- 
tion of  its  kind,  when  the  song  of  the  nesting  bird 
is  the  more  bitter  for  its  beauty,  when  every  village 
child  in  the  street  is  a  tragedy.  On  every  life — 
every  useless  life — is  a  senseless  death  for  its 
birthmark. 

And  this  is,  of  course,  especially  terrible  in  the 
springtime.  The  wheel  is  at  the  height  of  its 


MINIATURES  249 

revolution ;  the  furnace  roars ;  the  engine  throbs. 
The  mighty  machine  that  makes  and  breaks  us 
works  overtime.  If  only  one  could  find  in  nature 
the  least  human  analogy!  If  only  in  the  purpose 
at  the  back  of  things  one  could  discern  a  standard 
of  values  which  was  humanly  comprehensible ! 
But  it  is  not  so.  Nature  knows  nothing  of  utility, 
or  beauty,  or  nobility  as  we  know  them.  It  knows 
nothing  even  of  cruelty.  If  it  were  maliciously 
inhuman  one  might  bear  it ;  but  it  is  not  human. 
And  the  highest  we  can  think  or  do  may  be  a  jest 
elsewhere  to  other  beings. 

And  since  it  is  now  the  springtime,  my  dear 
Edward,  and  since  poor  Herbert  has  made  me 
very  tired,  you  will  not  hear  of  me  for  a  week 
or  two. 


SORROW  IN   THE  COUNTRY 

THE  Poet  walked  along  the  winding  lane  on  the 
hillside  in  springtime.  A  mile  back  a  cart  had 
met  him — a  slow,  heavy  cart,  whose  driver  lolled  in 
a  beery  drowsiness,  the  reins  slack  in  one  dropped 
hand.  Since  then  he  had  seen  no  one.  On  either 
side  the  hazels  showed  their  delicate  green ;  the 
bluebells  grew  in  profusion  ;  under  the  hedge  the 
half-opened  curves  of  the  young  common  ferns  still 
made  their  faithful  promises.  Below  him  lay  the 
plantation,  dusky  and  mysterious.  Lower  still, 
not  far  from  the  village,  came  the  rat-tat-tat  of  the 
workman's  hammer ;  for  there  the  trees  had  been 


250  STORIES  IN  GREY 

cleared,  and  some  human  brute  was  building  for 
himself  a  big  house,  where  he  should  give  dinner- 
parties and  be  just  about  as  common  as  other 
people.  But  for  that,  there  was,  the  Poet  felt,  a 
pleasure  in  the  suggestions  that  the  scene  offered 
him.  A  sense  of  solitude  without  dreariness,  of 
remoteness  not  too  remote.  A  half-hour's  descent 
would  have  taken  him  down  to  the  village, 
humming  there  in  the  haze. 

A  turn  of  the  lane  brought  him  suddenly  upon 
a  cottage,  with  thatched  roof  and  white  walls ;  it 
stood  in  a  little  garden,  old-fashioned,  where  the 
white  rhododendrons  and  big  red  peonies  opened 
slowly,  a  restrained  and  yet  inevitable  outburst  of 
delights.  The  garden  merged  haphazard  into  an 
orchard.  The  white  pear-blossom,  most  precious 
of  all  to  the  bees,  had  already  paid  its  tribute  and 
ended  its  little  day  of  beauty.  But  the  apple-trees 
were  glorious  in  the  sun — heal  thy,  sturdy  Blenheims, 
and  here  and  there  a  rare  Ribstone,  showing  where 
a  dead  arm  had  been  lopped  off,  dying  out,  the 
sickly  mother  of  the  finest  fruit.  (Are  there  not 
also  fine  poems  from  men  with  the  morel  ear  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  stigmata  ?  )  And,  as  in  that  old 
rhyme,  someone  was  in  the  garden  hanging  out 
the  clothes. 

She  was  hanging  out  the  clothes — clothes  of  a 
most  intimate  character — with  a  simplicity  and  a 
total  absence  of  embarrassment  possible  when  facts 
are  comprehensible  but  suggestions  an  unknown 
language.  The  Poet  liked  that  particularly. 
There  was  nothing  shirked.  The  beauty  of  the 


MINIATURES  251 

scene  was  intrinsic,  not  gained  by  a  pettifogging 
trick  of  trimming  and  cutting  out  what  was  ugly. 
It  was  beautiful  because  it  had  not  cared,  and  did 
not  care,  anything  at  all  about  that.  The  heavenly 
pinkish  snow  from  the  shaken  apple-trees  was  due 
to  the  same  breeze  that  played  vulgar  monkey 
tricks  with  the  hanging  clothes. 

She  wore  a  print  gown  of  pale  mauve  and  a 
coarse  apron  ;  neither  of  them,  examined  closely, 
would  have  been  found  to  be  quite  clean.  They 
did  for  working  in,  and  it  was  the  work  that  threw 
her  into  a  grand  pose.  Her  head  was  thrown 
back,  her  arms  raised  high,  the  dress  strained  over 
the  deep  bosom.  She  would  have  been  the  delight 
of  a  sculptor,  and  the  despair  of  a  fashion-plate. 
Tall,  erect,  strong,  shapely,  she  seemed  as  one 
come  back  from  the  old  days,  before  we  all  grew  so 
clever  and  so  chetif^  a  relic  of  the  healthy  animal 
that  dies  out  of  the  race  as  our  poisonous  civilization 
does  its  work.  Red  lips,  big  eyes,  a  mass  of  black 
hair  twisted  up  anyhow,  the  melancholy — one 
might  almost  have  said  sulkiness — of  her  unin- 
telligent expression,  the  Poet  noted  them  all.  He 
noted  too,  with  delight,  that  the  mouth  was  too 
large  and  the  hands  and  part  of  the  splendid  fore- 
arm were  red  from  the  wash-tub.  That  was  right. 
It  was  all  so  good  because  it  was  so  true,  and  you 
could  afford  to  see  everything. 

With  the  quick  enthusiasm  of  a  poet,  he 
wondered  how  it  would  be  if  he  stepped  across  the 
grass,  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  as 
soon  as  might  be,  set  the  wedding-bells  a-jingling. 


252  STORIES  IN  GREY 

That  she  would  marry  him  he  had  no  doubt.  Not 
for  the  offer  of  his  person — an  unseemly  mixture 
of  the  puny  and  the  portly — but  for  position,  and 
money,  and  laziness,  and  fine  clothes,  and  the  envy 
of  others.  It  was  not  for  his  own  sake  that  he 
gave  up  the  mad  scheme,  though  he  recognized 
what  misery  the  load  of  years  with  her  might 
mean  ;  it  was  because  he  felt  there  was  something 
that  belonged  to  the  garden  and  to  solitude,  and 
that  would  die  if  transplanted.  He  would  not 
even  cross  the  grass  to  her  with  a  pretext  of  asking 
his  way,  lest  her  voice  should  shrilly  disappoint 
him.  Rustic  words  and  accent  he  welcomed  as 
the  truth,  but  the  voice — he  heard  it  in  imagination 
as  a  contralto. 

Also  the  Poet  was,  as  poets  so  often  are,  just  a 
little  bit  afraid. 

At  that  moment  she  turned  and  looked  at  him 
curiously,  and  with  a  clumsy  pretence  of  a  pause 
to  light  a  cigarette,  he  passed  on.  He  reflected 
that  their  curiosities  would  be  very  different.  She 
would  ask  herself  if  he  was  stopping  down  at  the 
"  Lion,"  and  if  he  was  one  of  those  artists,  and 
there  she  would  leave  it.  His  wonder  as  to  her 
was  wider  and  deeper.  Memory  for  a  whim 
marked  that  page  as  one  that  was  to  remain,  and 
years  afterwards  the  Poet,  dying,  recalled  the  scene. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  he  saw  her, 
long  after  the  rat-tat-tat  of  the  hammer  had  ceased 
in  the  big  unfinished  house  below,  when  the  crescent 
moon  relieved  the  growing  dusk,  she  came  out  of 


MINIATURES  253 

the  cottage.  The  old  people  were  chatting  in  the 
kitchen,  and  it  would  have  been  remarked  if  she 
had  run  upstairs.  But  out  here  one  was  not 
observed,  and  for  a  while  she  sobbed  passionately, 
leaning  against  the  trunk  of  an  apple-tree.  She 
sobbed  not  on  account  of  the  Poet — of  whom  she 
had  not  thought  twice — but  on  account  of  the 
beery  giant  whom  he  had  met  driving  half-asleep 
the  heavy  cart. 

XI 

A  CIVIL  WAR 

Miss  ANNABEL  BLAKE  and  Miss  Jessica  Wynch 
possessed  certain  points  of  resemblance.  They 
were  about  the  same  age,  and  had  about  the  same 
moderate  income.  Both  were  plain,  slightly 
eccentric,  sturdy,  and  even  pugnacious.  Both  of 
them  hated  men  and  loved  gardening.  Both  were 
independent,  methodical,  and  hot-tempered.  Both 
had  quarrelled  with  all  their  relations. 

It  was  chiefly  on  that  account  that  at  the  age 
of  thirty  they  decided  to  join  their  forces  and  take 
a  house  and  garden  in  the  country  together.  The 
relations  smiled  and  said  they  would  give  that 
arrangement  just  one  month  to  last.  They 
calculated  that  by  then  Annabel  and  Jessica  would 
have  flown  at  each  other's  throats  and  parted  for 
ever. 

But  the  relations  were  wrong.  Both  of  the 
ladies  were  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  the  only 
possible  modus  vivendi  was  one  which,  as  far  as 


254  STORIES  IN  GREY 

possible,  left  to  each  her  independence.  A  book  of 
rules  was  drawn  up  in  manuscript,  each  lady 
possessing  her  own  copy.  As  the  years  went  on 
the  rules  grew  in  number,  to  meet  every  occasion. 
They  were  agreed  to  by  both  parties,  and  there 
were  fines  for  breaking  them,  and  the  fines  were 
always  paid.  The  making  of  these  rules  caused 
a  good  deal  of  friction,  generally  ending  in  an 
even  compromise.  Neither  lady  could  claim  to 
be  the  predominant  partner ;  gradually  the  spirit 
of  an  accurately-measured  give-and-take  grew  up 
between  them.  The  compromise  might,  for 
instance,  have  been  traced  in  Rule  78,  which 
ordained  that  fires  in  the  reception-rooms  were 
permissible  only  between  6  P.M.  of  October  I5th 
and  10.30  P.M.  of  the  following  April  23rd.  It 
took  two  evenings  of  animated  discussion  to  make 
that  rule.  Once  made  it  passed  into  the  things 
beyond  discussion,  and  there  was  no  more  trouble 
about  it.  An  entire  absence  of  anything  that 
could  possibly  have  been  called  a  sense  of  humour 
helped  them. 

Thanks  to  the  rules  and  compromises,  Miss 
Blake  and  Miss  Wynch  managed  to  live  together 
for  twenty  years.  They  did  not  pretend  to  have 
much  mutual  affection,  but  they  enjoyed  a  little 
sharpness  of  the  tongue ;  perfect  calm  would  have 
bored  them.  They  had,  however,  a  certain  amount 
of  mutual  respect,  since  neither  was  a  person  who 
could  be  put  upon,  and  from  the  similarity  of  their 
tastes  it  was  probably  easier  for  each  to  live  with 
the  other  than  with  anybody  else.  Besides,  there 


MINIATURES  255 

Avas  a  distinct  saving  of  money  from  living  together  ; 
and  though  they  were  not  precisely  miserly,  they 
liked  good  management. 

But  in  the  twenty-first  year,  in  the  springtime, 
when  the  birds  were  singing  prettily,  and  the 
blossoms  were  looking  lovely,  and  Nature  gener- 
ally seemed  smiling  and  peaceful,  the  great  war 
broke  out  between  the  two  ladies.  The  war  had 
its  origin  in  the  garden.  The  paths  and  lawns 
were  common  ground,  though  the  care  of  the  paths 
was  assigned  to  Miss  Wynch,  while  Miss  Blake 
was  responsible  for  the  lawn.  The  rest  of  the 
garden  was  divided  into  equal  parts.  By  Rule  3 
Miss  Blake  owned  and  cultivated  that  part  of  the 
garden  on  the  left  side  of  the  path,  and  Miss 
Wynch  owned  and  cultivated  the  other  half  on 
the  right  side.  They  -employed  no  gardener,  and 
needed  none.  These  two  ladies  of  fifty  could  do  a 
piece  of  hard  digging — and  no  nonsense  about  it — 
as  well  as  most  men.  There  were  rules  that  a 
certain  proportion  of  each  allotment  was  to  be 
kitchen-garden,  and  the  crops  for  these  were  to  be 
settled  in  January  by  discussion.  Otherwise,  the 
two  ladies  might  have  had  too  much  of  one  thing 
and  none  of  another.  This  discussion  was  much 
less  fiery  than  might  have  been  expected.  The 
capabilities  of  the  land  and  of  its  cultivators 
had  been  early  recognized.  When  a  difficulty 
did  arise,  a  short  squabble  and  a  sternly  just 
compromise  settled  it.  The  rest  of  the  allotments, 
the  flower-gardens,  never  came  under  discussion  at 
all ;  there  each  proprietor,  by  Rule  15,  was  supreme. 


256  STORIES  IN  GREY 

Now  it  happened  that  Miss  Wynch  in  turning 
over  her  seed-packet  one  evening,  came  on  one 
that  bore  no  label  and  no  indication  of  its  contents. 
Miss  Blake  expressed  her  opinion,  to  give  her 
exact  words,  that  Jessica  Wynch  was  a  careless 
fool.  Miss  Wynch  said  she  had  never  seen  the 
packet  before,  and  the  seedsman  must  have  sent  it 
by  mistake.  It  was  probably  rubbish,  and  she 
should  burn  it.  She  added  that  people  who  forgot 
to  get  the  crumb-tray  repaired  should  not  call 
other  people  careless  fools.  Miss  Blake  said  that 
people  who  burned  seeds  deserved  to  live  to  want 
bread  to  eat.  Jessica  said  that  Annabel  could 
have  the  packet  for  a  penny,  and  the  money  was 
paid.  Annabel  sowed  that  seed,  and  it  flourished 
exceedingly.  It  was  a  foreign  weed — as  ugly,, 
vindictive,  and  prolific  as  a  Chinaman  !  Where  it 
was  put  in  there  was  its  base  of  operations  for 
evermore.  So  the  war  began.  And  so  far  Miss 
Wynch  had  right  on  her  side. 

Miss  Blake  made  a  heap  of  the  weed  and  set  fire 
to  it  on  a  day  when  the  wind  carried  the  smoke 
across  Jessica's  allotment.  For  this  infringement 
of  Rule  70  she  was  fined  fourpence.  Jessica  then 
threw  a  healthy  collection  of  large  snails  across 
into  Miss  Blake's  flower-beds.  Miss  Blake  appealed 
to  Rule  35,  under  which  rubbish  from  one  allot- 
ment might  not  be  deposited  on  the  other.  Miss 
Wynch  objected,  under  the  plea  that  rubbish 
meant  something  dead,  and  the  snails  were  alive. 
Miss  Blake  said  "  Very  well,"  and  spent  an  afternoon 
in  getting  together  an  army  of  fat  caterpillars  for 


MINIATURES  257 

Jessica's  roses.  In  a  week's  time  the  two  ladies  had 
ceased  to  speak  to  one  another — whenever  speech 
could  be  avoided — and  took  their  meals  separately. 
They  would  undoubtedly  have  separated  alto- 
gether and  lived  apart,  but  one  day  in  July, 
when  Jessica  was  hurrying  to  the  nearest  town  to 
get  her  will  altered,  she  was  knocked  over  by  a 
cart  and  killed.  That  stopped  the  war ! 

So  Miss  Blake,  having  inherited  all  her  enemy's 
possessions,  now  lives  in  the  old  house  alone  ;  and 
her  temper  is  a  little  more  fiendish  than  before. 
So  the  gardener  says,  who  is  now  called  in  to 
help.  He  looks  after  the  lawn  and  the  paths,  and 
is  permitted  to  work  on  Miss  Blake's  side  of  the 
garden.  But  Miss  Blake  herself  works  much 
harder,  with  more  knowledge,  and  with  more 
conscientiousness  in  the  garden  of  her  dead  enemy. 
It  is  on  that  side  that  most  of  the  money  is  spent. 
Miss  Blake  surveyed  it  one  summer  evening  when 
it  was  at  its  best.  "  I  think,"  she  said,  "  that 
Jessica  would  be  satisfied." 

XII 
HIS  LIFE'S  WORK 

THE  day  had  been  spent  very  quietly.  Now  that 
the  work  of  thirty  years  was  finished,  there  was 
none  of  the  triumph  of  completion  and  not  even 
the  sense  of  relief  that  is  so  often  felt  when  a  long 
task  is  at  length  laid  aside.  All  through  the  house 
the  tone  was  grave,  almost  mournful. 
R 


258  STORIES  IN  GREY 

The  old  man  in  the  spare  hours  that  science  had 
left  him  had  found  time  to  win  the  love  of  many. 
This  change  frightened  them.  They  were  anxious 
about  him.  What  would  he  do  with  his  mornings 
now  ?  He  had  never  been  easy  to  interest ;  of 
politics  he  knew  nothing ;  he  thought  of  art  gener- 
ally as  a  pleasant  parlour  game  for  ladies ;  science 
and  the  ties  of  personal  affection  had  been  the  only 
realities  for  him.  And  he  was  about  to  give  up  half 
his  realities. 

Yes,  after  the  work  would  come  the  reward  ; 
they  did  not  forget  that.  The  book  was  not  for 
the  general  reader,  but  it  was  certain  of  a  magni- 
ficent reception  from  the  learned.  It  was  a  book 
that  had  been  long  expected,  for  which  the  scientific 
world  was  impatient.  Yes,  for  a  time  he  would  find 
occupation  in  seeing  the  book  through  the  press ; 
and  then  there  would  be  the  honour  and  glory ; 
but  what  after  that  ?  He  had  been  so  inseparably 
linked  with  the  preparation  of  that  book.  His 
health  had  been  good  or  bad,  proportionately  as 
the  work  had  gone  well  or  ill.  And  so  it  happened 
that  on  the  day  that  he  announced  the  completion 
of  the  manuscript,  side  by  side  with  the  spoken 
words  of  cheerful  congratulation  went  thoughts 
that  were  grave  and  apprehensive. 

The  little  old  gentleman  himself  took  the  whole 
affair  with  a  certain  dignity.  He  gave  no  sign  of  ex- 
ultation or  depression.  In  fact,  he  was  scarcely  con- 
scious what  his  own  feelings  were,  but  he  told  himself 
that  it  was  vulgar  to  expect  and  base  to  fear.  After 
dinner  he  retired  to  the  library  instead^of  joining^his 


MINIATURES  259 

family  in  the  drawing-room  as  usual,  and  took  from 
thedeepestof  thedrawers  in  thewriting-tablethe  pre- 
cious manuscript,  finished  and  ready  for  the  printer. 
The  library  was  a  large  room,  furnished  in  the 
simplest  manner,  and  the  simplicity  was  not  an 
arranged  simplicity.  It  was  so,  not  in  the  least 
because  he  had  tried  to  make  it  simple,  but  because 
he  had  never  tried  to  make  it  elaborate.  It  was 
not  the  simplicity  of  a  consciously  severe  taste,  but 
the  less  pleasing  result  of  pure  chance.  The  in- 
congruous presents  of  friends  and  relatives 
mingled  with  the  essential  apparatus  of  his 
studies.  One  wondered  how  anybody  who  wanted 
that  big  microscope  could  also  want  that  violet  wool 
mat  or  the  "  crystoleum  "  representation  of  a  stout 
Naiad.  He  had  never  been  guilty  of  adding  one 
decoration  to  the  room  himself;  but  if  people  gave 
him  things — well,  it  was  very  kind  of  them.  It  was 
Aunt  Alice  who  had  given  him  the  pair  of  candle- 
sticks that  he  now  placed  on  the  table  beside  his 
book.  They  were  of  white  china,  and  bore  views 
of  some  of  the  more  tempting  parts  of  Eastbourne. 
He  had  never  desired  them,  but  he  used  them  with 
gratitude,  and  lighted  the  candles  with  a  match 
from  a  box  that  bore  the  needless  and  insensate 
inscription :  "  Strike  a  light."  He  drew  from 
among  the  sheets  of  his  book  a  large  diagram, 
full  of  minute  detail,  drawn  with  exquisite 
neatness,  and  peered  closely  at  it.  No :  there  was 
nothing  to  correct  and  nothing  to  add.  To  the 
best  of  his  ability  it  was  finished.  He  put  down 
the  sheet  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 


260  STORIES  IN  GREY 

He  did  not  share  the  apprehensions  of  his 
relatives  about  his  future.  ...  If  he  pictured  it 
at  all,  he  saw  himself  busy  with  an  interminable 
correspondence  arising  out  of  his  book.  Not  all 
the  letters  that  he  would  receive  would  be  pleasant. 
There  is  a  deal  of  jealousy  about,  even  in  the 
scientific  world,  but  there  would  be  the  congratula- 
tory messages  as  well.  The  effects  of  the  book,  as 
he  imagined  them,  would  last  for  years  and  years 
— all  the  years  that  were  likely  to  be  left  him. 
The  work  of  preparing  new  editions  would  alone 
be  enough  to  keep  him  fully  occupied.  He 
reminded  himself  that  it  was  vulgar  to  expect ; 
but  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  thinking  out  phrases 
of  a  suitable  modesty  to  use  in  a  reply  to  an 
illuminated  address  from  a  learned  body.  Why 
not?  There  was  thirty  years'  work,  unusual 
resources,  great  devotion,  and — well,  yes — some 
intelligence  in  the  book.  It  deserved  recognition, 
and  with  this  comforting  thought  he  grew  drowsy, 
and  nodded  off  to  sleep  in  his  chair. 

In  his  sleep  he  had  a  dream.  He  was  present 
at  a  great  banquet,  and  he  became  aware  that  the 
banquet  was  given  in  his  honour,  and  that  he 
would  shortly  be  expected  to  speak.  He  had  no 
feeling  of  nervousness  ;  in  his  hand  were  the  notes 
of  his  speech  already  written  out,  but  he  felt 
absolutely  independent  of  them.  He  was  full  of 
the  happiest  ideas,  inspired  with  telling  phrases, 
conscious  of  power.  At  last  the  moment  came 
and  amid  loud  applause  he  rose  to  his  feet.  He 
almost  whispered  the  prefatory  formula :  this  was 


MINIATURES  261 

calculated.  Managing  his  voice  to  perfection,  he 
became  more  audible  as  he  referred  in  well-chosen 
language  to  the  interest  which  His  Royal  Highness 
had  always  shown  in  the  work  of  the  Society  and 
to  the  honour  that  he  conferred  upon  them  by  his 
presence.  Then  he  paused  and  allowed  the 
courteous  applause  to  die  away  before  getting  to 
the  real  business  of  his  speech.  Raising  his  voice, 
and  with  a  noble,  sweeping  gesture,  he  continued  : 
"  Wherever  I  gaze  I  see  before  me.  .  .  ." 

And  at  that  moment  the  arm  of  the  sleeper  shot 
out  and  upset  one  of  the  white  china  candlesticks 
with  the  views  upon  them.  It  fell  over  on  the 
pile  of  manuscript — the  one  copy  of  the  great 
work,  waiting  for  the  printer.  Awake?  No,  he 
sleeps  on  and  on  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

When  you  knock  over  a  lighted  candle,  the 
candle  (except  in  stories)  is  generally  extinguished 
by  the  draught  occasioned  by  the  fall.  That  is 
what  happened  in  this  instance.  The  precious 
manuscript  was  absolutely  uninjured,  except  for  a 
spot  of  grease  which  was  removed  with  a  flat-iron 
and  blotting-paper  on  the  following  day. 

And  many  a  time  since  that  night  has  he  longed 
(ah !  how  ardently)  that  the  flame  had  not  failed 
in  its  work,  that  the  child  had  been  stillborn,  that 
the  book  had  never  seen  daylight. 

Within  a  week  of  its  publication,  an  elderly 
round-faced  German  brought  out  another  book  on 
the  same  subject,  the  result  of  forty  years'  study, 
of  greater  resources,  and  of  a  finer  intelligence. 


262  STORIES  IN  GREY 

The  junior  partner  in  the  firm  which  published  the 
little  old  gentleman's  book  committed  suicide,  and 
the  book  (which  was  to  have  been  the  standard 
work  on  the  subject  for  the  next  ten  years)  fell 
flat  and  unnoticed,  and  .  .  .  the  old  gentleman 
immediately  commenced  another. 

But  this  is  a  work  which  will  require  many  more 
years  yet,  and  he  is  no  chicken. 


XIII 
THE   END  OF  THE  STORY 

THE  two  old  ladies  took  a  penny  weekly  paper, 
and  took  it  very  seriously.  Its  due  delivery  on 
Saturday  morning  by  the  village  newsvendor  was 
a  notable  event.  They  fixed  dates  by  remembering 
the  week  when  The  Sunday  Miscellany  failed  to 
arrive ;  a  local  train  had  broken  down,  and  the 
paper  did  not  come  till  the  following  Monday,  and 
the  earth — so  far  as  the  old  ladies  knew  it — was  up- 
side down.  They  did  not  glance  hurriedly  through 
it  and  then  fling  it  aside.  They  read  every  word 
and  commented  sagely  and  soberly  upon  it. 

Incidentally,  it  solved  a  problem  for  them. 
They  had  never  varied  from  their  strict  upbring- 
ing, and  they  were  forbidden  by  their  consciences 
to  read  novels  on  Sunday.  But  they  were  not 
forbidden  to  read  The  Sunday  Miscellany.  Was 
it  not,  as  its  name  implied,  a  Sunday  paper  ?  Was 
it  not  edited  by  a  clergyman  ?  And  it  possessed 
a  serial  story.  They  followed  every  instalment 


MINIATURES  263 

with  the  keenest  interest.  They  were  critical,  too, 
but  rather  of  the  characters  in  the  story  than  of 
the  author's  work. 

"Where  he  was  wrong,"  Priscilla  would  say, 
speaking  of  the  hero  of  Percival's  Atonement,  "was 
in  going  to  London  at  all.  The  good  bishop 
had  warned  him  of  the  temptations  which  awaited 
him  there.  I  cannot  help  feeling  sorry  for  him, 
but  so  far  as  I  can  see  from  the  last  chapter  this 
week,  that  poor  boy's  going  to  the  bad." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  her  sister,  seriously.  "  It 
does  look  like  it  this  week,  but  I  pin  my  faith  in 
that  girl,  Olive  Lorraine.  I  feel  convinced  that  we 
shall  hear  a  good  deal  more  of  her,  and  I  can  see 
already  that  she  is  taking  an  interest  in  him. 
However,  we  shall  see  next  week.  It  is  un- 
fortunate that  every  week  the  story  stops  just  at 
some  point  where  one  wants  to  know  more.  But 
I  suppose  it  is  unavoidable." 

The  Editor  would  have  been  pleased  if  he  had 
heard  that.  The  serial  stories  in  The  Sunday 
Miscellany  were  innocuous  and  stereotyped.  The 
lurid  light  which  they  cast  on  the  high  life  of 
London  was  never  too  lurid.  Virtue  was  always 
triumphant,  and  the  end  was  always  happy.  But 
with  the  two  old  ladies  these  stories  never 
missed  their  mark.  When  in  the  very  first  chapter 
Percival  plunged  into  the  dark  pool  to  rescue  the 
drowning  kitten,  and  his  father  exclaimed  :  "  It  is 
all  over ;  we  shall  never  see  him  alive  again ! "  it 
never  occurred  to  the  old  ladies  to  ask  how  on 
earth  the  serial  story  was  going  to  get  on  if  the 


264  STORIES  IN  GREY 

hero  died  in  the  very  first  chapter.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  took  a  pessimistic  view  of  the  situation. 
"  Thank  heaven,  he's  alive  !  "  exclaimed  Priscilla,  as 
she  anxiously  attacked  the  next  week's  instalment. 

"  Was  he  injured  ?  "  asked  her  sister  eagerly. 

"  He  speaks  of  a  strain  on  his  nervous  system, 
and  says  he  is  still  very  feeble." 

That  Percival  was  pretty  feeble  all  the  way 
through  the  story.  But  he  had  a  sunny  smile  and 
curly  hair.  Even  his  London  excesses  could  not 
quite  destroy  the  old  ladies'  affectionate  admiration 
for  him. 

PercivaFs  Atonement  was  a  very  long  serial. 
The  clerical  editor,  who  paid  starvation  prices  in 
any  case,  had  got  a  reduction  on  taking  a  quantity. 
At  the  end  of  six  months  Percival  was  safely 
engaged  to  that  charming  lady,  Olive  Lorraine ; 
but  "in  the  dim  twilight"  he  had  accidentally 
espied  her  kissing  another  man.  He  did  not  ask 
for  any  explanation.  He  merely  became  seriously 
ill  and  moaned  a  good  deal.  The  Percivals  of 
fiction  are  like  that. 

And  just  at  this  juncture  Priscilla,  the  elder  of  the 
two  sisters,  also  fell  ill.  It  was  a  sudden  illness,  and 
ended  in  her  death.  She  knew  that  she  was  dying. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  she  had  lain  for  a  long 
time  without  speaking.  Her  sister  had  read  out 
to  her  the  chapters  of  the  current  number  of  The 
Sunday  Miscellany ',  and  sat  by  the  fireside,  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  do  something  else  for  Priscilla.  In 
the  silence,  the  clock  seemed  to  tick  laboriously,  as 
if  the  quiet  of  the  room  had  nearly  overwhelmed  it. 


MINIATURES  265 

"I  cannot  believe,"  said  Priscilla  at  last,  "that 
Olive  Lorraine  was  guilty.  It  seems  so  unlike 
her.  In  the  twilight  a  man  might  very  easily 
make  a  mistake — it  was  probably  some  other 
girl." 

"  Or,"  said  her  sister,  "  the  man  may  turn  out  to 
have  been  her  brother  or  her  father." 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  a  pity  that  Percival  did  not 
think  of  these  things.  I  should  have  liked  to  have 
known  how  the  story  ended  before  I  died." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  her  sister.  "  You're  much 
better.  Anybody  can  see  that." 

Priscilla  shook  her  head.  That  night  she  got 
little  sleep ;  her  mind  was  much  worried  about 
Olive  Lorraine  and  Percival.  To  the  sick  woman 
these  absurd  characters  out  of  a  stupid  story  had 
become  intensely  real.  She  babbled  of  them  at 
times  when  she  was  light-headed. 

And  her  sister  wrote  a  letter  to  the  author 
of  Percival 's  Atonement,  and  got  a  reply  of  a 
favourable  character  by  return  of  post.  It  was  a 
quite  unusually  good-natured  author. 

The  sister  went  to  Priscilla  in  triumph.  "  I 
thought,  my  dear,  that  your  anxiety  about  Olive 
and  Percival  was  perhaps  making  your  recovery 
rather  slower  than  it  should  be." 

"  Yes,"  said  Priscilla  ;  "  if  I  only  knew  that  they 
were  safely  through  this  trouble,  I  feel  that  my 
mind  would  be  easier." 

"  I  have  taken  rather  a  liberty,  Priscilla.  I  have 
written  to  the  author  of  the  story,  explaining  the 
circumstances,  and  I  have  had  a  most  kind  reply 


266  STORIES  IN  GREY 

from  him.  He  sends  me  some  long  slips  of  paper 
on  which  the  rest  of  the  story  is  printed." 

"  It  is  kind  of  him  and  of  you,"  said  Priscilla, 
"  very  kind."  She  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  read  them  out  to 
you  now  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Priscilla,  firmly.  "It  is  very  kind  of 
you  both,  but  I  must  not  take  advantage  of  it.  It 
would  be  irregular.  It  would  even  be  a  little  dis- 
honourable. To  my  mind  it  seems  very  much  like 
cheating  at '  Patience.'  You  are  not  offended  ?  " 

"  No,  dear.     Of  course  not." 

"  And  you  see,"  Priscilla  added,  "  I  shall  know 
the  end  of  all  the  stories  so  soon  now." 


XIV 

THE  ARTISTIC  SUCCESS 
(Monodrama) 

ACT    I 

The  scene  is  a  garden,  old-fashioned,  with  high  yew  hedges. 
In  one  of  the  shaded  walks  Percivaljoye  Smith,  aged 
eight,  paces  to  and  fro ',  lost  in  thought.  He  is  attired 
in  pale  green  plush  and  frills,  surmounted  by  a 
foolish  beej-eater  hat.  He  has  a  bad  loose  mouth,  no 
chin,  splendid  eyes,  and  a  roomy  head  of  queer  shape. 
He  speaks : 

YES,  if  we  are  to  be  strictly  accurate,  I  have 
thrown  the  cat  on  the  fire,  stolen  the  money  of  my 
governess,  and  told  three  large  but  unsuccessful 
lies.  My  governess  is  perhaps  at  this  moment 


MINIATURES  267 

reporting  my  offences  to  mamma.  If  not,  she  is 
but  waiting  for  the  return  of  my  father,  in  order  to 
appeal  to  the  sterner  tribunal.  It  is  time  that  I 
looked  out  for  myself. 

Flight?  I  think  not.  I  am  aware  that  in 
books  about  boys  one  runs  away,  and  has  ideas 
about  going  to  sea,  and  is  in  other  respects  very 
absurd.  It  may  even  be  that  such  things  some- 
times happen.  But  not  in  the  case  of  a  thoughtful 
and  observant  boy  with  a  sentimental  mother. 
He  knows  something  better,  and  he  dislikes 
adventure,  as  a  rule,  and  he  prefers  to  take  his 
meals  regularly. 

Remorse  ?  That  is  very  good  if  it  is  done  on  a 
large  scale,  and  includes  the  refusal  of  food  and 
sleep,  and  is  accompanied  by  floods  of  tears,  and 
lasts  for  days.  But  all  this  is  very  trying, 
and  tends  to  lessen  one's  self-respect.  It  will  be 
a  better  plan  to  say  something. 

Whenever  I  say  something,  mamma  writes  it 
down  in  a  little  book,  and  puts  the  date  to  it.  If 
there  are  visitors  here  and  I  say  something  that 
attracts  a  little  attention,  I  can  do  what  I  like  with 
mamma  afterwards.  My  words  speak  louder  than 
my  actions ;  that  is  fortunate,  for  I  find  words 
comparatively  easy.  Before  I  try  to  explain  to 
mamma  that  I  was  holding  the  cat  up  to  the 
window  so  that  it  could  see  out,  and  that  it 
dropped  on  the  fire  accidentally,  and  that  I  took 
the  money  to  give  to  the  missionaries,  and  that  the 
lies  were  not  real  lies,  but  statements  made  in 
joke — before  I  proceed  to  these  explanations,  I 


268  STORIES  IN  GREY 

should  certainly  say  something,  something  that  will 
give  them  colour  and  probability.  I  think,  on  the 
whole,  I  could  not  do  better  than  go  into  the  draw- 
ing-room with  a  grave  face  and  upturned  eyes  and 
ask  mamma  if  the  stars  are  God's  daisy-chain. 
[He  does  so.] 

ACT    II 

The  scene  is  a  third-floor  bed-sitting  room  in  Doughty 
Street.  It  is  furnished  exactly  like  a  third-floor  bed- 
sitting  room  in  Doughty  Street.  In  it  sits  Percival 
Joye  Smith,  aged  twenty-five.  He  wears  a  shabby 
tweed  suit  oj  a  large  pattern.  He  looks  dirty,  in- 
temperate and  partially  starved.  He  smokes  cigarettes 
— his  fingers  are  stained  with  them — and  looks 
through  his  letters  received  by  the  second  post.  He 
speaks  : 

So  the  governor  has  found  it  out  and  stopped  it, 
and  the  mater  ain't  to  send  me  any  more  money. 
She  will  continue  to  write.  .  .  .  Plucky  lot  of 
good  that  is  without  the  cash. 

I  never  asked  to  be  born  into  this  beast  of  a 
world.  It  was  their  look-out.  But  if  they're 
going  to  shirk  their  responsibilities — and  I  own 
that  the  mater  has  hung  on  as  long  as  she  could — 
I  suppose  I  must  look  out  for  myself.  And  it's 
not  so  easy  to  look  out  for  oneself  when  one  has 
been  expelled  from  two  schools,  sent  down  from 
Oxford,  has  lost  one's  character,  and  been 
abandoned  by  one's  friends. 

I  could  dig,  but  I  won't ;  I  am  not  in  the  least 
ashamed  to  beg,  but  I  have  no  luck,  and  I  should 
have  a  cart-load  of  Mendicity  Societies  down  on 
me  in  no  time.  At  the  first  glance  it  seems  that 


MINIATURES  269 

all  means  of  livelihood  are  closed  to  me.  I  have 
still  a  hundred  of  the  money  the  governor  sent  me 
to  pay  my  Oxford  bills,  when  he  cut  me  off,  but 
even  with  that  little  capital  to  invest  I  see  no 
occupation  for  me  which  would  be  remunerative 
and  pleasing. 

[He  smokes  two  cigarettes,  drinks  a  little  gin  and 
water,  and  resumes :] 

There  are  just  two  things  that  seem  to  me  to 
be  left  for  a  man  of  spotted  character.  I  might 
join  a  mission,  and  preach ;  or  I  might  write 
a  great  book.  In  my  youth,  and  since  then,  I 
have  found  the  utility  of  saying  things  ;  it  is  only 
a  question  of  saying  things  again,  but  to  the 
sentimental  mother-hearted  public  this  time. 

Yes,  I  will  write  a  work  of  genius. 

[He  does  so.] 

ACT    III 

The  scene  is  a  small  flat  in  Davies  Street,  W.  It  is  a 
dull  November  afternoon,  and  the  room  seen  is  lit 
with  wax  candles,  free  from  the  "rose  shades"  so 
dear  to  the  fashionable  writers  of  Halfpenny  Home 
Slitherings.  The  room  is  furnished  with  exquisite 
severity,  and  is  one  of  the  few  rooms  in  the  West  of 
London  at  the  time  that  are  not  overcrowded  with 
furniture  .  It  is  unsullied  by  bamboo,  or  the 
"portiere,"  or  the  imitation  Chippendale  table  for 
the  exhibit  of  three- and-sixpenny  silver  boxes  and 
ornaments.  Percival  Joye  Smith,  correctly  dressed, 
aged  thirty,  sits  at  the  writing-table.  He  speaks  : 

So  here  —  and  at  my  cottage  at  Sunning  —  I 
have  everything  I  want ;  and  five  years  ago  I 


270  STORIES  IN  GREY 

had  nothing  but  debts  and  a  bad  reputation. 
Then  I  starved  ;  and  now  almost  my  only  source 
of  anxiety  is  my  waist-measurement.  Then  I 
was  but  Smith ;  and  now  I  am  Percival  Joye, 
the  author  of  Stay  With  Me  and  several  other 
popular  novels. 

Yes,  several  other  popular  novels.  That  was 
a  beastly  thing  in  the  Critical  Review  about  that. 
The  old  parrot  cry  of  excessive  production — spite 
in  the  guise  of  kindliness.  Oh,  damn  the  thing ! 
It's  the  penalty  of  artistic  success,  and  one  must 
put  up  with  it. 

It's  so  good  for  one — success.  To  be  thought 
well  of,  without  having  to  do  much  to  deserve  it, 
makes  one  moral.  I  shall  write  to  my  father  and 
mother  and  say  that  I  forgive  them,  though  they 
never  understood  me. 

[He  does  so.] 

ACT   IV 

The  scene  is  as  in  Act  II. ;  the  time  is  three  o'clock  on 
a  summer  morning ;  the  dawn  comes  through  a  green 
blind  and  lights  the  shabby  narroiv  bed ;  on  it,  clad 
in  bright  blue  pyjamas ',  lies  Percival  Joye  Smith,  aged 
forty.  He  is  bald,  unshaven,  wide-awake  and 
tremulous.  Beside  him,  on  a  wicker-seated  chair,  are 
a  medicine-bottle,  a  glass,  a  stump  of  candle  in  a 
painted  china  candlestick,  some  letters,  and  a 
smouldering  cigarette-end  in  a  Jubilee  ash-tray. 
He  speaks  : 

POPULARITY  !  Money !  Light  come  and  light 
go,  with  both  of  them.  The  fashions  change.  Oh, 
goodness.  Yes.  We  are  wearing  our  stories 


MINIATURES  271 

rather  longer  this  season.  Selling  a  good  deal 
of  adventure  just  now.  Sin  and  epigrams  are 
quite  out ;  they  are  overdone.  Some  of  the  smart 
people  are  in  favour  of  the  simple  pagan.  Percival 
Joye?  Oh,  never  asked  for  nowadays. 

It  was  a  quick  fire,  but  it's  blazed  quite  out, 
dead  out.  %, 

[He  takes  up  the  letter s>  and  grins.  ~] 

They're  all  so  damned  polite.  Porter  regrets 
exceedingly  that  he  has  no  work  to  offer  worthy 
of  my  attention ;  Simpson  thinks  that  to  put 
me  on  to  reviewing  would  be  to  cut  wood  with 
a  razor;  Wilton  thanks  me  most  cordially  for 
my  kind  offer,  but  fears  he  has  no  vacancy  at 
present.  All  alike.  They  know  I'm  done. 

My  own  fault?  Wickedness?  Any  amount. 
Extravagant  living?  Of  course.  Add  to  it  all 
the  rest  of  the  purulent  mess  that  goes  to  make 
up  an  artist  of  my  type.  But  don't  forget  the 
kind  of  world  it  is.  A  fine  world  for  tailors  ! 

[He  pours  from  the  bottle  and  drinks. 1 

Three  doses  instead  of  one.  So  when  my 
landlady  comes  to  turn  me  out  of  this  palace  of 
luxury  to-morrow,  she'll  be  disappointed.  After 
all,  one  can  die. 

[He  does  so."] 


LINDA 

MY  elder  brother,  Lorrimer,  married  ten  years 
ago  the  daughter  of  a  tenant  farmer.  I  was  at 
that  time  a  boy  at  school,  already  interested  in 
the  work  which  has  since  made  me  fairly  well 
known,  and  I  took  very  little  interest  in  Lorrimer 
or  my  sister-in-law.  From  time  to  time  I  saw  her, 
of  course,  when  I  paid  brief  visits  to  their  farm 
in  Dorsetshire  during  the  holidays.  But  I  did 
not  greatly  enjoy  these  visits.  Lorrimer  seemed 
to  me  to  become  daily  more  morose  and  taciturn. 
His  wife  had  the  mind  of  a  heavy  peasant,  deeply 
interested  in  her  farm  and  in  little  else,  and 
only  redeemed  from  the  commonplace  by  her  face. 
I  have  heard  men  speak  of  her  as  being  very 
beautiful  and  as  being  hideous.  Already  an  artist, 
I  saw  the  point  of  it  all  at  once :  her  eyes  were 
not  quite  human.  Sometimes  when  she  was  angry 
with  a  servant  over  some  trivial  piece  of  neglect, 
they  looked  like  the  eyes  of  a  devil.  She  was 
exceedingly  superstitious  and  had  little  education. 
Our  guardian  had  the  good  sense  to  send  me 
to  Paris  to  complete  my  art  education,  and  one 
snowy  March  I  was  recalled  suddenly  from  Paris 
to  his  death-bed.  I  was  at  this  time  twenty-two 
years  of  age,  and  of  course  the  technical  guardian- 
ship had  ceased.  Accounts  had  been  rendered, 
Lorrimer  had  taken  his  share  of  my  father's  small 
272 


LINDA  273 


fortune  and  I  had  taken  mine.  But  we  both  felt 
a  great  regard  for  this  uncle  who,  during  so  many 
years,  had  been  in  the  place  of  a  father  to  us. 
I  found  Lorrimer  at  the  house  when  I  arrived, 
and  learned  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  our  uncle 
had  strongly  disapproved  of  his  marriage.  He 
spoke  of  it  in  the  partially  conscious  moments 
which  preceded  his  end,  and  he  said  some  queer 
things.  I  heard  little,  because  Lorrimer  asked  me 
to  go  out.  After  my  guardian's  death  Lorrimer 
returned  to  his  farm  and  I  to  my  studies  in  Paris. 
A  few  months  later  I  had  a  brief  letter  from 
Lorrimer  announcing  the  death  of  his  wife.  He 
asked  me,  and,  indeed,  urged  me  not  to  return 
to  England  for  her  funeral,  and  he  added  that  she 
would  not  be  buried  in  consecrated  ground.  Of 
the  details  of  her  death  he  said  nothing,  and  I 
have  heard  nothing  to  this  day.  That  was  five 
years  ago,  and  from  that  time  until  this  last  winter 
I  saw  nothing  of  my  brother.  Our  tastes  were 
widely  different — we  drifted  apart. 

During  those  five  years  I  made  great  progress 
and  a  considerable  sum  of  money.  After  my  first 
Academy  success  I  never  wanted  commissions. 
I  had  sitters  all  the  year  round  all  the  day  while 
the  light  lasted.  I  worked  very  hard,  and,  possibly, 
a  little  too  hard.  Of  my  engagement  with  Lady 
Adela  I  will  say  nothing,  except  that  it  came 
about  while  I  was  painting  her  portrait,  and  that 
the  engagement  was  broken  off  in  consequence 
of  the  circumstances  I  am  about  to  relate. 

It  was  then  one  day  last  winter  that   a   letter 


274  STORIES  IN  GREY 

was  brought  to  me  in  my  studio  in  Tite  Street 
from  my  brother  Lorrimer.  He  complained 
slightly  of  his  health,  and  said  that  his  nerves  had 
gone  all  wrong.  He  complained  that  there  were 
some  curious  matters  on  which  he  wished  to  take 
advice,  and  that  he  had  no  one  to  whom  he  could 
speak  on  those  subjects.  He  urged  me  to  come 
down  and  to  stay  for  some  time.  If  there  were 
no  room  in  the  farmhouse  that  suited  me  for  my 
painting  he  would  have  a  studio  built  for  me. 
This  was  put  in  his  usual  formal  and  business-like 
language,  but  there  was  a  brief  postscript — "For 
Heaven's  sake  come  soon ! "  The  letter  puzzled 
me.  Lorrimer,  as  I  knew  him,  had  always  been 
a  remarkably  independent  man,  reserved,  taking 
no  one  into  his  confidence,  resenting  interference. 
His  manner  towards  me  had  been  slightly  patron- 
izing, and  his  attitude  towards  my  painting  frankly 
contemptuous.  This  letter  was  of  a  man  disturbed, 
seeking  help,  ready  to  make  any  concessions. 

As  I  have  already  said,  I  had  been  working  far 
too  hard,  and  wanted  a  rest.  During  the  last  year 
I  had  made  twenty  times  the  sum  that  I  had 
spent.  There  was  no  reason  why  I  should  not 
take  a  holiday.  The  country  around  my  brother's 
place  is  very  beautiful.  If  I  did  work  there  at  all, 
I  thought  it  might  amuse  me  to  drop  portraits 
for  a  while  and  to  take  up  with  my  first  love — 
landscape.  There  had  never  been  any  affection 
between  Lorrimer  and  myself,  but  neither  had 
there  been  any  quarrel ;  there  was  just  the  steady 
and  unsentimental  family  tie.  I  wrote  to  him 


LINDA  275 

briefly  that  I  would  come  on  the  following  day, 
and  I  hoped  he  had,  or  could  get,  some  shooting 
for  me.  I  told  him  that  I  should  do  little  or  no 
work,  and  he  need  not  bother  about  a  studio  for 
me.  I  added :  "  Your  letter  leaves  me  quite 
in  the  dark,  and  I  can't  make  out  what  the  deuce 
is  the  matter  with  you.  Why  don't  you  see 
a  doctor  if  you're  ill  ?  " 

It  was  a  tedious  journey  down.  One  gets  off 
the  main  line  on  to  an  insignificant  local  branch. 
People  on  the  platform  stare  at  the  stranger  and 
know  when  he  comes  from  London.  In  order 
to  be  certain  where  he  is  going,  they  read  with 
great  care  and  no  sense  of  shame  the  labels  on 
his  luggage.  There  are  frowsy  little  refreshment 
rooms,  tended  by  frowsy  old  women,  who  could 
never  at  any  period  of  their  past  have  been  bar- 
maids, and  you  can  never  get  anything  that  you 
want.  If  you  turn  in  despair  from  these  homes 
of  the  fly-blown  bun  and  the  doubtful  milk,  to 
the  platforms,  you  may  amuse  yourself  by  noting 
that  the  further  one  gets  from  civilization,  the 
greater  is  the  importance  of  the  railway  porter. 
Some  of  them  quite  resent  being  sworn  at.  I  got 
out  at  the  least  important  station  on  this  un- 
important line,  and  as  I  gave  up  my  ticket, 
asked  the  man  if  Mr  Estcourt  was  waiting  for 
me. 

"If,"  said  the  man  slowly,  "you  mean  Mr 
Lorrimer  Estcourt,  of  the  Dyke  Farm,  he  is 
outside  in  his  dog-cart." 

"What's  the  sense  of  talking  like  that,  you 


276  STORIES  IN  GREY 

fool  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Have  you  got  twenty  different 
Estcourts  about  here  ?  " 

"No,"  he  replied  gravely,  "we  have  not,  and 
I  don't  know  that  we  want  them." 

I  explained  to  him  that  I  was  not  interested 
in  what  he  wanted  or  didn't  want,  and  that  he 
could  go  to  the  devil.  He  mumbled  some  angry 
reply  as  I  went  out  of  the  station.  Lorrimer 
leant  down  from  the  dog-cart  and  shook  hands 
with  me  impassively.  He  is  a  big  man,  with 
a  stern,  thin-lipped,  clean-shaven  face.  I  noted 
that  his  hair  had  gone  very  grey,  though  at  this 
time  he  was  not  more  than  thirty-six  years  of  age. 
He  shouted  a  direction  that  my  luggage  was  to 
come  up  in  the  farm  cart  that  stood  just  behind, 
bid  me  rather  impatiently  to  climb  up,  and  brought 
his  whip  sharply  across  his  mare's  shoulder. 
There  was  no  necessity  to  have  touched  her  at 
all,  and,  as  she  happened  to  be  a  good  one,  she 
resented  it.  Once  outside  the  station  yard,  we  went 
like  the  wind.  So  far  as  driving  was  concerned, 
his  nerves  seemed  to  me  to  be  right  enough. 
The  road  got  worse  and  worse,  and  the  cart 
jolted  and  swayed. 

"Steady,  you  idiot!"  I  shouted  to  him.  "I 
don't  want  my  neck  broken." 

"All  right,"  he  said.  He  pulled  the  mare  in, 
spoke  to  her  and  quieted  her.  Then  he  turned 
to  me.  "  If  this  makes  you  nervous,"  he  said,  "  I'd 
better  turn  round  and  drive  you  back.  A  man 
who  is  easily  frightened  wouldn't  be  of  much  use 
to  me  at  Dyke  Farm  just  now." 


LINDA  277 

"When  a  man  drives  like  a  fool,  I  suppose 
it's  always  a  consolation  to  call  the  man  a  funk 
who  tells  him  so.  You  can  go  on  to  your  farm, 
and  I'll  promise  you  one  thing  —  when  I  am 
frightened  I  will  tell  you." 

He  became  more  civil  at  once.  He  said  that 
was  better.  As  for  the  driving,  he  had  merely 
amused  himself  by  trying  to  take  a  rise  out  of 
a  Londoner.  His  house  was  six  miles  from  the 
station,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  way  we  chatted 
amicably  enough.  He  told  me  that  he  was  his 
own  bailiff  and  his  own  housekeeper — managed 
the  farm  like  a  man  and  the  house  like  a  woman. 
He  said  that  hard  work  suited  him. 

"  You  must  find  it  pretty  lonely,"  I  said. 

"  I  do,"  he  answered.  "  Lately  I  have  been 
wishing  that  I  could  find  it  still  lonelier." 

"  Look  here,"  I  said,  "  do  you  mind  telling  me 
plainly  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  You  shall  see  for  yourself,"  he  said. 

The  farmhouse  had  begun  by  being  a  couple 
of  cottages  and  two  or  three  considerable  additions 
had  been  made  to  it  at  different  times ;  consequently, 
the  internal  architecture  was  somewhat  puzzling. 
The  hall  and  two  of  the  living  rooms  were  fairly 
large,  but  the  rooms  upstairs  were  small  and 
detestably  arranged.  Often  one  room  opened  into 
another  and  sometimes  into  two  or  three  others. 
The  floor  was  of  different  heights,  and  one  was 
always  going  up  or  down  a  step  or  two.  Three 
staircases  in  different  parts  of  the  house  led  from 
the  ground  floor  to  the  upper  storey.  The  old 


278  STORIES  IN  GREY 

moss-grown  tiles  of  the  roof  were  pleasing,  and 
the  whole  place  was  rather  a  picturesque  jumble. 
But  we  only  stopped  in  the  house  for  the  time 
of  a  whisky-and-soda.  Lorrimer  took  me  round 
the  garden  almost  immediately.  It  was  a  walled 
garden  and  good  as  only  an  old  garden  can  be. 
Lorrimer  was  fond  of  it.  His  spirits  seemed  to 
improve,  and  at  the  moment  I  could  find  nothing 
abnormal  in  him.  The  farm  cart,  with  my  luggage, 
lumbered  slowly  up,  and  presently  a  gong  inside 
the  house  rang  loudly. 

"Ah!"  said  Lorrimer,  pulling  out  his  watch, 
"time  to  dress.  I'll  show  you  your  room  if  you 
like." 

My  room  consisted  really  of  two  rooms,  opening 
into  one  another.  They  seemed  comfortable 
enough,  and  there  were  beautiful  views  from  the 
windows  of  both  of  them.  Lorrimer  left  me,  and 
I  began,  in  a  leisurely  way,  to  dress  for  dinner. 
As  I  was  dressing  I  heard  a  queer  little  laugh 
coming  apparently  from  one  of  the  upper  rooms, 
in  the  passage.  I  took  little  notice  of  it  at  first ; 
I  supposed  it  was  due  to  one  of  the  neat  and 
rosy-cheeked  maids  who  were  busy  about  the 
house.  Then  I  heard  it  again,  and  this  time  it 
puzzled  me.  I  knew  that  laugh,  knew  it  perfectly 
well,  but  could  not  place  it.  Then,  suddenly,  it 
came  to  me.  It  was  exactly  like  the  laugh  of  my 
sister-in-law  who  had  died  in  this  house.  It  struck 
me  as  a  queer  coincidence. 

Naturally  enough,  I  blundered  on  coming  down- 
stairs and  first  opened  the  door  of  the  dining-room. 


LINDA  279 

I  noticed  that  the  table  was  laid  for  three  people, 
and  supposed  that  Lorrimer  had  asked  some 
neighbour  to  meet  me,  possibly  a  man  over  whose 
land  I  was  to  shoot.  One  of  the  maids  directed  me 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  I  went  in.  At  one  end 
of  the  room  a  log  fire  flickered  and  hissed,  and 
the  smell  of  the  wood  was  pleasant.  The  room 
was  lit  by  two  large  ground-glass  lamps,  relics 
of  my  dead  sister-in-law's  execrable  taste.  I  had 
at  once  the  feeling  that  I  was  not  alone  in  the 
room,  and  almost  instantly  a  girl  who  had  been 
kneeling  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the  fire  got  up  and 
came  towards  me  with  hands  outstretched. 

Her  age  seemed  to  be  about  sixteen  or  seventeen. 
She  had  red  hair,  perhaps  the  most  perfect  red 
that  I  have  ever  seen.  Her  face  was  beautiful. 
Her  eyes  were  large  and  grey,  but  there  was 
something  queer  about  those  eyes.  I  noticed  it 
immediately.  She  was  dressed  in  the  simplest 
manner  in  white.  As  she  came  towards  me  she 
gave  that  little  laugh  which  I  had  heard  upstairs. 
And  then  I  knew  what  was  strange  in  her  eyes. 
They  also  at  moments  did  not  look  quite  human. 

"You  look  surprised,"  she  said.  "Did  not  Mr 
Estcourt  tell  you  that  I  should  be  here  ?  I  am 
Linda,  you  know."  Linda  was  the  name  of  my 
dead  sister-in-law.  The  name,  the  laugh,  the 
eyes — all  suggested  that  this  was  the  daughter  of 
Linda  Estcourt.  But  this  was  a  girl  of  sixteen 
or  seventeen,  and  my  brother's  marriage  had  taken 
place  only  nine  years  before.  Besides,  she  spoke 
of  him  as  "  Mr  Estcourt."  I  was  making  some 


28o  STORIES  IN  GREY 

amiable  and  some  more  or  less  confused  reply 
when  Lorrimer  entered. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said.  "  I  see  you  have  already  made 
Miss  Marston's  acquaintance.  I  had  hoped  to 
be  in  time  to  introduce  you." 

We  began  to  chat  about  my  journey  down,  the 
beauty  of  the  country,  all  sorts  of  commonplace 
things.  I  was  struck  greatly  by  her  air,  at  once 
mysterious  and  contemptuous.  It  irritated,  and 
yet  it  fascinated  me.  At  dinner  she  said  laugh- 
ingly that  it  would  really  be  rather  confusing 
now ;  there  would  be  two  Mr  Estcourts  —  Mr 
Lorrimer  Estcourt  and  Mr  Hubert  Estcourt.  She 
would  have  to  think  of  some  way  of  making 
a  distinction. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  turning  to  my  brother,  "  I 
shall  go  on  calling  you  Mr  Estcourt,  and  I  shall 
call  your  brother  Hubert." 

I  said  that  I  should  be  greatly  flattered,  and  her 
grey  eyes  showed  me  that  I  had  no  need  to  be. 
From  this  time  onward  she  called  me  Hubert, 
as  though  she  had  known  me  and  despised  me 
all  my  life.  I  noticed  that  two  or  three  times  at 
dinner  she  seemed  to  fall  into  fits  of  abstraction, 
in  which  she  was  hardly  conscious  that  one  had 
spoken  to  her ;  and  I  noticed,  moreover,  that  these 
fits  of  abstraction  irritated  my  brother  immensely. 
She  rose  at  the  end  of  dinner,  and  said  she  would 
see  if  the  billiard-room  was  lit  up.  We  could 
come  and  smoke  in  there  as  soon  as  we  liked. 
I  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  I  closed  the  door  behind 
her. 


LINDA  281 

"At  last!"  I  said.  "Now,  then,  Lorrimer, 
perhaps  you  will  tell  me  who  this  Miss  Marston 
is?" 

"Tell  me  who  you  think  she  is  —  no,  don't. 
She  is  my  dead  wife's  younger  sister,  younger  by 
many  years.  Her  father  took  the  name  of  Marston 
shortly  before  his  death.  I  am  her  guardian.  My 
wife's  dying  words  were  occupied  entirely  with 
this  sister,  about  whom  she  told  me  much  that 
would  seem  to  you  strange  beyond  belief;  and 
at  the  time  she  gave  me  injunctions,  wrested 
promises  from  me  which,  under  certain  conditions, 
I  shall  have  to  carry  out.  The  conditions  may 
arise;  I  think  they  will.  I  don't  mind  saying 
that  I'm  afraid  they  will." 

"Why  does  she  bear  her  sister's  name?  Why 
does  she  address  you  as  '  Mr  Estcourt '  ?  And 
why  do  you  address  her  as  *  Miss  Marston,' 
when  she  introduces  herself  to  me  simply  as 
'Linda'?" 

"  Her  mother  had  three  daughters.  The  eldest 
was  called  Linda.  When  she  died,  the  second, 
who  was  my  wife,  took  that  name.  When  my 
wife  died  the  name  descended  to  the  third  of 
them.  There  has  always  been  a  Linda  in  the 
family.  The  rest  is  simply  Miss  Marston's  own 
whim.  She  has  several." 

"  Who  chaperons  her  here  ? "  I  asked. 

He  smiled.  "That  question  is  typical  of  you. 
She  is  little  more  than  a  child,  and  she  has  an 
almost  excessively  respectable  governess  living 
here  to  look  after  her.  Only  I  can't  be  bothered 


282  STORIES  IN  GREY 

with  the  governess  at  dinner  quite  every  night. 
Does  that  satisfy  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  well,  perhaps  yes.     I  suppose  so." 

"  It  may  make  your  rigid  mind  a  little  easier 
if  I  tell  you — and  it  is  the  truth — that  if  I  had  my 
own  way  I  would  turn  Miss  Marston  out  of  this 
house  to-morrow,  and  that  I  would  never  set  eyes 
on  her  again  ;  that  I  have  a  horror  of  her,  and  she 
has  a  contempt  of  me." 

"And  of  most  other  people,  I  fancy.  Well, 
anyhow,  what's  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  the  time  to  tell  you  a  long  story 
now ;  she  will  be  waiting  for  us.  Besides,  you 
would  merely  laugh  at  me.  You  have  not  yet 
seen  for  yourself.  What  would  you  say  if  I  told 
you  of  a  compact  made  years  and  years  ago  with 
some  power  of  evil,  and  that  this  girl  was  concerned 
in  the  fulfilment  of  it  ?  " 

"  What  should  I  say  ?  Very  little.  I  should  get 
a  couple  of  doctors  to  sign  you  up  at  once." 

"  Naturally.  You  would  think  me  mad.  Well, 
wait  here  for  a  few  weeks,  and  see  what  you  make 
of  things.  In  the  meantime,  come  along  to  the 
billiard-room." 

The  billiard-room  was  an  addition  that  Lorrimer 
himself  had  made  to  the  house.  We  found  Linda 
crouched  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the  blazing  fire ; 
I  soon  found  that  this  was  a  favourite  attitude 
with  her.  Her  coffee  cup  was  balanced  on  her 
knees.  Her  eyes  stared  into  the  flames.  She  did 
not  seem  to  notice  our  entrance. 

"  Miss  Marston,"  said  my  brother.     There  was 


LINDA  283 

a  shade  of  annoyance  in  his  voice.  She  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  disdainful  smile.  "  Do  you  care 
to  give  Hubert  a  game?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  yet.  I  want  to  watch  a  game  first.  You 
two  play,  and  I'll  mark." 

"  What  am  I  to  give  you,  Lorrimer  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Thirty  ? "  He  was  not  even  a  moderate  player. 
I  had  always  been  able  to  give  him  at  least 
that. 

"  You  had  better  play  even,"  said  Linda.  "  And 
I  think  you  will  be  beaten,  Hubert." 

I  looked  at  Lorrimer  in  astonishment.  "Very 
well,  Miss  Marston,"  he  said,  as  he  took  down  his 
cue.  I  could  only  suppose  that  during  the  last 
few  years  his  play  had  improved  considerably. 
And  even  then  I  did  not  see  why  Linda  had 
interfered.  How  on  earth  could  she  know  what 
my  game  was  like  ? 

"  This  is  your  evening,"  I  said  to  Lorrimer  after 
his  first  outrageous  fluke. 

"  It  would  seem  so,"  he  answered,  and  fluked 
again.  And  this  went  on.  His  game  had  not 
improved ;  he  did  the  wrong  things  and  did  them 
badly,  and  they  turned  out  all  right.  Now  and 
again  I  heard  Linda's  brief  laugh,  and  looked  up 
at  her.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  have  power  to  coax 
a  lagging  ball  into  a  pocket ;  one  had  a  curious 
feeling  that  she  was  controlling  the  game.  I  did 
my  best  with  all  the  luck  dead  against  me.  It 
was  a  close  finish,  but  I  was  beaten,  as  Linda  said 
I  should  be. 

Linda  would  not  play.     She  said  she  was  tired, 


284  STORIES  IN  GREY 

and  suddenly  she  looked  tired.  The  light  went 
out  of  her  eyes.  She  lit  a  cigarette,  and  went 
back  to  her  place  on  the  rug  before  the  fire. 
Lorrimer  talked  about  his  farm  with  me.  The 
quiet  of  the  place  seemed  almost  ghastly  to  a  man 
who  was  used  to  London.  Presently  Linda  got 
up  to  go  to  bed.  "  Good-night,  Mr  Estcourt,"  she 
said,  as  she  shook  hands  with  my  brother.  Then 
she  turned  to  me :  "  Good-night,  Hubert.  You 
shouldn't  quarrel  with  ticket-collectors  about 
nothing.  It's  silly,  isn't  it?"  She  kissed  me  on 
the  cheek,  and  ran  off  laughing.  She  left  me 
astounded  by  her  words  and  insulted  by  her  kiss. 

Lorrimer  turned  out  the  lights  over  the  billiard- 
table,  and  we  sat  down  again  by  the  fire. 

"What  did  you  think  of  that  game?"  he 
asked. 

"  It  Was  remarkable." 

"  Nothing  more  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  a  game  like  it  before.  But  there 
was  nothing  impossible  about  it." 

"Very  well.  And  did  you  have  a  row  with 
that  ticket-collector?" 

"  Not  a  row  exactly.  He  annoyed  me,  and  I 
may  have  called  him  a  fool.  I  suppose  you  over- 
heard and  told  her  about  it." 

"I  could  not  have  overheard.  I  was  outside 
the  station  buildings  and  you  were  on  the  further 
platform." 

"Yes,  that's  true.     It's  a  queer  coincidence." 

"  I  tried  that,  too,  at  first— the  belief  that  things 
were  remarkable,  but  not  impossible,  and  that 


LINDA  285 

queer  coincidences  happen.  Personally  I  can't 
keep  it  up  any  more." 

"  Look  here,"  I  said.  "  We  may  as  well  go  to 
the  point  at  once.  Why  do  you  want  me  here  ? 
Why  did  you  send  for  me  ?  " 

"  Suppose  I  said  that  I  wanted  you  to  marry 
Miss  Marston?" 

"  I  thought  that  at  the  time  of  my  engage- 
ment with  Adela  I  wrote  and  gave  you  the 
news." 

"You  did.  The  artistic  temperament  does 
sometimes  do  a  brilliant  business  thing  for  itself. 
Lady  Adela  Marys — " 

"  We  won't  discuss  her." 

"Then  suppose  we  discuss  you.  You  are  half 
in  love  with  Linda  already." 

"  Very  well,"  I  said,  "  let  us  carry  the  supposi- 
tion a  little  further.  Suppose  that  I  or  anybody 
else  was  entirely  in  love  with  her,  what  on  earth 
would  be  the  use  ?  The  one  thing  that  one  can 
feel  absolutely  certain  about  in  her  is  that  she  has 
an  amused  contempt  for  the  rest  of  her  species, 
male  and  female.  It's  not  affected,  it's  perfectly 
genuine.  Even  if  I  wished  to  marry  her,  she 
would  not  look  at  me." 

"  Really  ? "  said  Lorrimer,  with  a  sneer.  "  She 
seemed  fond  enough  of  you  when  she  said  good- 
night." 

"  That,"  I  said  meditatively,  "  was  the  cleverest 
kiss  that  ever  was  kissed.  It  finished  what  the 
interchange  of  Christian  names  began.  It  settled 
the  situation  exactly — that  I  was  the  fool  of  a 


286  STORIES  IN  GREY 

brother,  and  she  the  good-natured,  though  con- 
temptuous sister." 

"You  needn't  look  at  it  like  that.  It  is  im- 
portant, exceedingly  important  that  she  should  be 
married." 

"Marry  her  yourself — it  won't  be  legal  in  this 
country,  but  it  will  in  others,  and  I  don't  know 
that  it  matters." 

"  No,  I  don't  know  that  it  matters.  On  the  day 
I  wrote  to  you  I  did  ask  her  to  be  my  wife.  She 
replied  that  it  was  disagreeable  to  have  to  speak 
of  such  things,  and  that  they  need  not  be  allowed 
to  come  to  the  surface  again,  but  that,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  au  fond  we  hated  one  another.  It  was 
true.  I  do  hate  her.  What  I  do  for  her  is  for 
my  dead  wife's  sake,  for  the  promises  I  made,  and, 
perhaps,  a  little  for  common  humanity.  There 
are  others  who  would  marry  her.  The  man 
whose  pheasants  you  will  be  shooting  next  week 
would  give  his  soul  for  her  cheerfully,  and 
it's  no  use.  Very  likely  it  will  be  of  no  use  in  your 
case." 

"  What  was  the  story  that  you  had  not  time  to 
tell  me  after  dinner  ?  " 

The  door  opened,  and  a  servant  brought  in  the 
decanters  and  soda-water  and  arranged  them  on 
the  table  by  Lorrimer's  side.  He  did  not  speak 
until  the  servant  had  gone  out  of  the  room,  and 
then  he  seemed  to  be  talking  almost  more  to  him- 
self than  to  me. 

"At  night,  when  one  wakes  up  in  the  small 
hours,  after  a  bad  dream  or  hearing  some  sudden 


LINDA  287 

noise  in  the  house,  one  believes  things  of  which 
one  is  a  little  ashamed  next  morning." 

He  paused,  and  then  leant  forward,  addressing 
me  directly.  "Look  here;  I'll  say  it  in  a  few 
words.  You  won't  believe  it,  and  that  doesn't 
matter  a  tinker's  curse  to  me.  You'll  believe  it  a 
little  later  if  you  stop  here.  Generations  ago,  in 
the  time  of  the  witches,  a  woman  who  was  to  have 
been  burned  as  a  witch  escaped  miraculously 
from  the  hands  of  the  officers.  It  was  said  that 
she  had  a  compact  with  the  devil ;  that  at  some 
future  time  he  should  take  a  living  maiden  of  her 
line.  Death  and  marriage  are  the  two  ways  of 
safety  for  any  woman  of  that  family.  The  com- 
pact has  not  yet  been  carried  out,  and  Linda  is 
the  last  of  the  line.  She  bears  the  signs  of  which 
my  wife  told  me.  One  by  one  I  watch  them 
coming  out  in  her.  Her  power  over  inanimate 
objects,  her  mysterious  knowledge  of  things  which 
have  happened  elsewhere,  the  terror  which  all 
animals  have  of  her.  A  year  or  two  ago  she  was 
always  about  the  farm  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
every  dog  and  horse  in  the  place.  Now  they  will 
not  let  her  come  near  them.  Well,  it  is  my 
business  to  save  Linda.  I  have  given  my 
promise.  I  wish  her  to  be  married.  If  that  is 
not  possible,  and  the  moment  arrives,  I  must  kill 
her." 

"Why  talk  like  a  fool?"  I  said.  "Come  and 
live  in  London  for  a  week.  It  strikes  me  that 
both  Linda  and  yourself  might  perhaps  be  bene- 
fited by  being  put  into  the  hands  of  a  specialist. 


288  STORIES  IN  GREY 

In  any  case,  don't  tell  these  fairy  stories  to  a  sane 
man  like  myself." 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  getting  up.  "I  must  be 
going  to  bed.  I  am  out  on  the  farm  before  six 
every  morning,  and  I  shall  probably  have  break- 
fasted before  you  are  up.  Miss  Marston  and  Mrs 
Dennison — that's  her  old  governess — breakfast  at 
nine.  You  can  join  them  if  you  like,  or  breakfast 
by  yourself  later." 

Long  after  my  brother  had  gone  to  bed  I  sat 
in  the  billiard-room  thinking  the  thing  over, 
angry  with  myself,  and,  indeed,  ashamed,  that  I 
could  not  disbelieve  quite  as  certainly  as  I  wished. 
At  breakfast  next  morning  I  asked  Linda  to  sit 
to  me  for  her  portrait,  and  she  consented.  We 
found  a  room  with  a  good  light.  Mrs  Dennison 
remained  with  us  during  the  sitting. 

This  went  on  for  days.  The  portrait  was  a 
failure.  I  have  the  best  of  the  several  attempts 
that  I  made  still.  The  painting's  all  right.  But  the 
likeness  is  not  there ;  there  is  something  missing 
in  the  eyes.  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Linda,  and  I 
came  at  last  to  this  conclusion,  that  I  had  no 
explanation  whatever  of  the  powers  which  she 
undoubtedly  possessed.  I  also  learned  that  she 
herself  was  well  acquainted  with  the  story  of  her 
house.  She  alluded  to  the  fact  that  neither  of 
her  sisters  was  buried  in  consecrated  ground  ;  no 
woman  of  her  family  would  ever  be. 

"And  you?"  I  asked. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  be  buried  at  all. 
To  me  strange  things  will  happen." 


LINDA  289 

I  had  letters  occasionally  from  Lady  Adela.  I 
was  glad  to  see  that  she  was  getting  tired  of  the 
whole  thing.  My  conduct  had  not  been  so  calculat- 
ing and  ignoble  as  Lorrimer  had  supposed.  She 
was  a  very  beautiful  woman.  It  was  easy  enough 
to  suppose  that  one  was  in  love  with  her — until 
one  happened  to  fall  in  love.  I  determined  to  go 
to  London  to  see  Lady  Adela,  and  to  give  her 
the  chance,  which  I  was  sure  she  wanted,  to  throw 
me  over.  I  promised  Lorrimer  that  I  would  only 
be  away  for  one  night.  Lady  Adela  missed  her 
appointment  with  me  at  her  mother's  house,  and 
left  a  note  of  excuse.  Something  serious  had 
happened,  I  believe,  with  regard  to  a  dress  that 
she  was  to  wear  that  night.  But,  really,  I  do  not 
remember  what  her  excuse  was.  I  went  back  to 
my  rooms  in  Tite  Street,  and  there  I  found  a 
telegram  from  Mrs  Dennison.  It  told  me  in  plain 
language,  and  with  due  regard  to  the  fact  that 
each  word  cost  a  halfpenny,  that  my  brother,  in  a 
fit  of  madness,  had  murdered  Linda  Marston  and 
taken  his  own  life.  I  got  back  to  my  brother's 
farm  late  that  night. 

The  evidence  at  the  inquest  was  simple  enough. 
Linda  had  three  rooms,  opening  into  one  another, 
the  one  furthest  from  the  passage  being  her  bed- 
room. At  the  time  of  the  murder  Mrs  Dennison 
was  in  the  second  room,  reading,  and  Linda  was 
playing  the  piano  in  the  room  which  opened  into 
the  passage.  Mrs  Dennison  heard  the  music  stop 
suddenly.  Linda  was  whimsical  in  her  playing, 
as  in  everything  else.  There  was  a  pause,  during 


290  STORIES  IN  GREY 

which  the  governess  was  absorbed  in  her  book. 
Then  she  heard  in  the  next  room  Lorrimer  say 
distinctly :  "  It  is  all  right,  Linda.  I  have  come 
to  save  you."  This  was  followed  by  three  shots 
in  succession.  Mrs  Dennison  rushed  in  and 
found  the  two  lying  dead.  She  was  greatly 
affected  at  the  inquest,  and  as  few  questions  as 
possible  were  put  to  her. 

Some  time  afterwards  Mrs  Dennison  told  me  a 
thing  which  she  did  not  mention  at  the  inquest. 
Shortly  after  the  music  had  stopped,  and  before 
Lorrimer  entered  the  room,  she  had  heard  another 
voice,  as  though  someone  were  speaking  with 
Linda.  This  third  voice,  and  Linda's  own,  were 
in  low  tones,  and  no  words  could  be  heard.  I 
thought  this  over,  and  I  remembered  that  Lorri- 
mer fired  three  times,  and  that  the  third  bullet  was 
found  in  another  part  of  the  room. 

Lady  Adela  was  certainly  quite  right  to  give 
me  up,  which  she  did  in  a  most  tactful  and 
sympathetic  letter. 


THE   GOOD   NAME 

THERE  was  once  a  girl  of  whom  her  friends — that 
is  to  say  her  enemies — used  to  observe:  "You 
never  would  have  thought  it  to  look  at  her." 

Nor  would  you.  She  had  the  wondering  and 
affectionate  eyes  of  a  child.  There  was  not  a 
vestige  of  cruelty  in  her  pretty  mouth.  If  there 
was  any  vanity  in  the  way  she  did  her  brown  hair 
it  was  the  vanity  that  finds  its  best  means  in 
simplicity.  Her  voice  was  low  and  sympathetic. 
Her  general  appearance  suggested,  if  anything,  an 
unusual  degree  of  shyness.  The  girl  had  left  a 
trail  of  broken  hearts  behind  her.  She  had  done 
all  that  was  mad,  and  wicked,  and  shameless,  and 
delightful.  But  certainly  you  would  never  have 
thought  it  if  you  had  looked  at  her.  She  was  just 
twenty-three  when  she  first  of  all  heard  of  the 
flower  which  is  called  the  flower  of  the  good  name. 
Everybody  about  her  believed  in  the  existence  of 
that  flower,  chiefly,  perhaps  because  no  one  had 
ever  found  it.  It  was  to  be  found  only  by  the 
most  virtuous  among  women.  A  few  unkind 
words  and  their  chance  was  gone.  The  most  in- 
considerable flirtation  and  you  would  never  find 
the  white  flower.  This  girl  never  even  looked  for 
it.  Her  girl  friends  made  a  point  of  going  to  look 
for  it  every  Sunday.  Uncharitable  people  said 

that  they  did  this  in  order  to  improve  their  reputa- 

291 


292  STORIES  IN  GREY 

tions.     It  was  a  way  of  saying  that  they  conscien- 
tiously believed  that  they  had  a  chance. 

But  the  shameless  girl  never  went  to  look  for  it 
at  all.  Early  on  a  summer  morning  she  went  for 
a  bathe.  As  she  came  back  from  the  seashore 
with  her  wet  hair  hanging  down  her  back  and  not 
looking  quite  so  nice  as  usual,  she  was  conscious 
that  she  had  swum  far  and  that  the  morning  was 
hot,  and  that  it  would  be  no  bad  thing  to  sit  down 
and  rest.  Her  seat  was  a  boulder  of  granite.  She 
sat  there  and  whistled  a  tune — which  was  dis- 
graceful and  boylike  —  and  looked  across  the 
meadow  before  her.  And  there  in  the  meadow 
she  found  it — a  white  flower,  shaped  like  a  seven- 
rayed  star,  each  petal  edged  with  gold  and  a  heart 
of  gold  in  the  centre.  She  gave  an  exclamation  of 
surprise,  which  was  slightly  vulgar.  Then  she 
bent  down  and  examined  the  flower  more  closely. 
Then  she  picked  it  and  kissed  it. 

What  was  she  to  do  next  ?  The  first  thing  was 
to  take  that  flower  to  some  man  of  science  and 
learning  and  to  get  its  genuineness  fully  established. 
Then  she  would  go  and  visit  all  those  cats,  who,  as 
she  was  well  aware,  were  in  the  habit  of  saying 
things  about  her,  and  she  would  wear  that  flower 
conspicuously  so  that  they  might  see  it.  But  she 
would  talk  only  of  the  weather  so  that  they  mignt 
think  that  her  finding  of  the  flower  was  to  her  bu 
a  trifle  which  she  had  always  known  must  happen 
one  day  or  another. 

Then  she  changed  her  mind.  No  good  woman 
could  have  changed  her  mind  with  greater  rapidity 


THE  GOOD  NAME  293 

than  did  this  sinful  little  vixen.  No,  it  was  no 
good.  All  the  learning  and  science  affidavits  and 
sworn  statements  in  the  world  would  never  have 
convinced  anybody  that  she  had  found  the  white 
flower.  Really,  she  could  hardly  believe  it  herself. 
She  looked  back  over  her  past — she  was  only 
twenty-three,  but  she  had  quite  a  good  deal  of 
past.  As  she  thought  out  its  tempestuous  incidents 
there  were  times  when  she  smiled,  and  times  when 
her  eyes  grew  sad,  and  once  when  she  closed  them 
altogether.  It  was  beyond  belief.  It  could  not  be 
true  that  she  had  found  the  white  flower.  Well, 
there  it  was  in  her  hand,  and  the  gold  of  its  pollen 
had  stained  her  red  lips. 

Then  the  thought  came  to  her  that  perhaps  after 
all  she  had  found  this  flower  not  by  virtue  of  her 
past  but  by  virtue  of  her  future ;  not  for  what  she 
was,  but  for  what  she  was  to  become.  She  took 
the  flower  home  and  pressed  it  between  the  leaves 
of  a  missal,  and  said  nothing  whatever  about  it. 
But  she  was  going  to  be  a  little  saint  now,  and  on 
this  point  she  did  not  change  her  mind. 

Years  afterwards,  her  friends — that  is  to  say  her 
enemies — used  to  observe  :  "  Yes,  but  you  should 
have  known  her  as  she  used  to  be."  Such  testimony, 
and  here  and  there  a  little  gratitude  and  her  con- 
sciousness of  her  goodness  were  all  the  rewards 
that  her  goodness  ever  got.  And  of  these,  the 
last  was  most  satisfying.  There  came  an  evening 
when  she  had  watched  the  sun  setting  to  music 
and  felt  too  unearthly  for  anything.  That  evening 
she  went  to  her  missal  and  took  out  the  flower  and 


294 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


carried  it  with  her  to  a  man  of  great  learning.  He 
immediately  fired  three  Latin  words  right  into  the 
middle  of  it  and  one  of  these  words  was  "  vulgaris." 
"  It  has  sometimes  been  confused,"  he  added, 
"  with  the  flower  of  the  good  name." 

"  Really  ? "  said  the  saint,  with  an  intelligent 
smile,  "  give  a  woman  a  good  name  and  she  may 
as  well  hang  herself." 

"  I  beg  pardon  ? "  said  the  man  of  learning 
coldly. 

She  did  not  repeat  the  statement.  She  went 
away  to  find  some  lonely  and  appropriate  spot 
where  she  might  cry. 


THREE   DIALOGUES 

BIRTH 

[The  scene  is  the  drawing-room  in  Mrs  Hanford  Blake's 
house  in  Mayfair.  The  time  is  the  afternoon,  three  days 
after  the  birth  of  Alicia  Theodora  Eltham  Gervis,  daughter 
of  the  Hon.  Rupert  Gervis  and  Theodora,  his  wife,  and 
granddaughter  of  Mrs  Hanford  Blake.] 

THE  room  is  large  and  fussy.  There  are  only  two 
men  in  it :  Mr  Arthur  Agger,  a  sexagenarian,  and 
Rupert  Gervis.  They  talk  apart :  at  least  Mr 
Agger  talks,  and  the  young  father  listens  as  well 
as  can  be  expected  under  the  circumstances. 
Around  Mrs  Hanford  Blake  is  gathered  a  pretty 
feminine  group :  Mrs  Agger,  who  is  dark-eyed, 
red-lipped,  and  thirty  years  younger  than  her 
husband :  Mrs  and  Miss  Sturt,  who  are  both 
doing  good  work,  but  are  less  plain  than  one  would 
have  supposed,  and  Mrs  Hector  K.  Girder,  who 
is  just  too  perfectly  sweet  for  words.  Lady 
Rothen  is  upstairs  inspecting  Alicia  Theodora 
Eltham  Gervis,  but  she  will  be  down  directly. 
Do  wait. 

There  is  a  sound  of  talk  and  tea-cups.  Outside 
in  the  hall  there  is  a  gentle  rain  of  cards  of  con- 
gratulation and  inquiry.  The  muffled  knocker  is 
busy,  and  from  time  to  time  one  hears  the  soft 
thud  of  a  sample  packet  of  babies'  food  in  the 
letter-box. 

295 


296  STORIES  IN  GREY 

MRS  BLAKE:  Yes,  Theo  is  wonderful.  The 
doctor  is  more  than  satisfied.  But  that  does  not 
prevent  me  from  taking  every  possible  precaution. 

THE  GROUP  :  How  right !  How  wise ! 

MRS  BLAKE  :  I  have  to  exercise  my  authority 
a  little.  What  is  the  use  of  being  a  grandmother 
if  one  doesn't  ?  Now,  there's  Rupert. 

MRS  STURT:  Ah,  yes! 

MRS  BLAKE  :  We  are  all  so  fond  of  him,  but 
really  at  such  times  the  father  is  a  perfect  nuisance 
in  the  house.  But  for  me  he  would  be  in  and  out 
of  Theo's  room  all  day ;  I  have  had  to  make  the 
strictest  rules  about  it.  And  it's  so  bad  for  him 
too ;  he  goes  nowhere  and  does  nothing  but  mope 
about  the  house;  his  only  occupation  is  to  walk 
to  Regent  Street  once  a  day  to  buy  a  ring  or 
bangle  for  Theo. 

MRS  GIRDER  :  Now,  I  call  that  just  too  sweet. 
Why,  when  my  little  girl  was  born  Hector  meant 
well,  but  he  didn't  know  anything  but  Guava  jelly. 
The  supply  of  Guava  jelly  got  so  far  ahead  of  the 
demand  that  I  had  to  speak  about  it. 

MRS  AGGER  :     Now  really,  Nancy  ! 

MRS  GIRDER  :  I'm  telling  you  the  truth. 
Hector's  like  that,  and  so  are  many  men.  When 
one  is  ill  they  get  bubbles  in  their  think-tanks, 
and  Guava  on  the  brain.  And  you've  got  to  put 
up  with  it. 

Miss  STURT  :  I  don't  know  whether  Mr  Gervis 
wants  an  occupation,  Mrs  Blake ;  but  if  he  does 
I  am  sure  we  could  find  him  one.  Mamma  and  I 
are  trying  to  get  up  a — 


THREE  DIALOGUES  297 

MRS  AGGER :  Now,  Mrs  Blake,  you  really 
must  tell  us  more  about  that  little  angel  upstairs. 
Eight  pounds,  you  said. 

MRS  BLAKE  :    And  a  half. 

MRS  AGGER  :  Oh,  that's  splendid  !  I've  (look- 
ing defiant  and  speaking  rapidly)  got  no  babies  of 
my  own,  you  know,  but  I  adore  them  and  know 
all  about  them.  I  think  the  names  you  have 
chosen  are  quite  perfect,  aren't  they,  Nancy? 

MRS  GIRDER  :  Why,  yes.  It's  most  important 
to  get  a  child  named  properly.  Now  Hector 
wanted  to  call  our  little  girl  Georgina  Washing- 
tonia,  but  I  wouldn't  have  it.  I'm  patriotic,  but 
there  is  a  limit.  "  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  I 
said.  "  That's  unlucky.  Suppose  she  took  it  from 
the  name  and  couldn't  tell  a  lie.  How  would  she 
get  on  ?  It's  as  bad  as  making  her  colour-blind." 
So  we  called  her  Irene  Veronica. 

MRS  AGGER  :  Nancy,  you  are  altogether  beyond. 

MRS  STURT  :  Personally,  I  have  always  set  my 
face  against  even  the  ordinary  social — 

[At  this  moment  Lady  Rothen  enters  in  a  state  of 
ecstasy,  hands  clasped,  eyes  bright,  triumphant. ,] 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  Seen  it !  Held  it !  Kissed  it ! 

MRS  BLAKE  :  Her.    Not  it. 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  Of  course.  Poor  mite.  She's 
a  little  woman.  Kissed  her — Her — HER  ! 

MRS  GIRDER  :  Now,  Lady  Rothen,  you  mustn't 
be  so  proud ;  we've  all  been  up,  and  we've  all 
taken  her. 

LADY  ROTHEN  (with  supreme  dignity)-.  But 
she  didn't  cry  when  I  took  her — HER. 


298 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


MRS  GIRDER  :  She  only  cried  with  me  because 
she  wanted  my  new  hat.  And  I  don't  blame  her. 
I  nearly  cried  myself  before  I  persuaded  Hector 
that  I  couldn't  live  without  it.  That's  a  child 
with  ideas.  That's  a  child  that  will  get  on. 

Miss  STURT  :  I  think  I  should  care  for  hats  too, 
if  only  I  could  put  out  of  my  mind  the  many 
toiling  millions  who  never  know  what  it  is  to  have 
even  the  simplest — 

ARTHUR  AGGER  (aside  to  his  wife) :  I  say, 
what  the  devil's  the  use  of  sticking  here  ?  Can't 
we  go? 

MRS  AGGER :  Oh,  Arthur,  I'm  taking  Nancy  to 
Paquin's  in  the  brougham.  You  can't  come  there  ; 
you  had  better  take  a  taxi  to  your  club. 

ARTHUR  AGGER  :  What  ?  A  taxi  ?  Stuff  and 
nonsense !  I  take  the  'bus. 

[The  Aggers  and  Mrs  Girder  go  out.  Rupert 
Gervis  makes  for  the  door,  but  is  swept  back  again 
by  a  rolling  tide  of  Sturt.  They  pin  him  in  a  corner 
and  tell  him  all  about  a  cottage-hospital.  Lady 
Rothen  becomes  suddenly  confidential  in  her  manner^ 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  Jane,  I  oughtn't  to  say  it,  I 
suppose,  but  I  hate  that  woman. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  What  ?     Mrs  Girder  ? 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  Oh,  no !  She's  a  darling,  in 
spite  of  her  frivolity.  She's  a  good  wife  and  a 
good  mother.  It  is  Mrs  Agger  that  I  hate.  That 
woman  dishonours  her  sex. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  But,  my  dear,  you  surprise  me. 
I  have  never  heard  a  word  against  Mrs  Agger — 
not  the  faintest  breath  of  scandal. 


THREE  DIALOGUES  299 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  I  don't  mean  that.  It's  her 
marriage  makes  me  furious.  Her  beauty  even 
now  is  a  joy  to  look  at ;  she  had  youth,  health, 
and  the  sweetest  ways ;  she  would  have  been  a 
bride  for  a  king  among  men — and  she  marries  that 
thing.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  she  or  any 
woman  could  by  any  possibility  love  that  disgust- 
ing brute  ? 

MRS  BLAKE  :  S-s-s-h  !  Really  ! 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  I  can't  help  it.  It  makes  my 
blood  boil.  Men  ol  that  type  should  be  made  to 
understand  that  with  all  their  wealth  there  are 
some  things  that  they  can't  buy.  Women  who 
marry  them  are  traitors  to  their  sex. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  Well,  my  dear,  I  don't  know. 
He's  not  nice  to  look  at,  and  his  manners  and 
customs  are  slightly — what  shall  I  say  ? 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  Repulsive's  a  good  word. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  Well,  they  certainly  are  not 
tempting.  But  everybody  is  agreed  that  he's  the 
kindest  of  husbands  ;  she  spends  money  like  water 
and  has  everything  she  wants. 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  Everything  ? 

MRS  BLAKE  :  Well,  it's  no  good  her  breaking 
her  heart  about  that.  She  is  in  many  ways  a 
most  fortunate  woman.  And  I  don't  know  that 
we  have  any  fair  grounds  for  saying  that  she  isn't 
fond  of  her  husband.  All  women  are  not  alike. 
Any  sign  of  strength  tells,  and  his  big  fortune  is 
a  sign  of  strength. 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  Or  unscrupulousness. 

MRS     BLAKE :     He's    generous ;     she's    grate- 


300  STORIES  IN  GREY 

ful.  And  how  far  is  it  from  gratitude  to 
love? 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  About  as  far  as  from  the  earth 
to  the  moon  and  back. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  Don't  you  believe  the  sentimen- 
talists, my  dear ;  or  the  cynics  either.  I've  seen 
many  such  marriages  arrange  themselves  very  well 
indeed  in  practice.  It  ought  to  turn  out  all  wrong, 
but  in  my  experience  it  doesn't ;  and  I'm  an  old 
woman  now. 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  You  ?  You're  the  youngest 
grandmother  in  London.  We  won't  quarrel,  Jane, 
but  I  warn  you  that  if  you  are  Alicia's  grand- 
mother I  am  her  godmother,  and  I  will  never  let 
her  make  a  marriage  like  that. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  Well  now,  my  dear,  what  sort  of 
husband  would  you  approve  of  for  Alicia. 

LADY  ROTHEN  (unhesitatingly)  :  A  soldier. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  I  know  you  will  think  me  sadly 
unromantic,  but  I  cannot  agree  with  you.  We 
three  women,  you  and  Theo  and  I,  have  the  child's 
happiness  to  consider,  and  what  is  superficially 
attractive  is  not  always  the  most  conducive  to 
happiness  in  the  long  run.  Your  soldier  might  be 
very  desirable  in  every  other  way,  but  there  are 
the  risks  of  his  profession  to  be  considered.  Think 
of  Alicia,  left  perhaps  at  the  age  of  thirty,  with 
a  lifelong  sorrow  and  loneliness.  On  the  other 
hand  if  she  married  a  capitalist — she  need  not 
necessarily  take  the  oldest  and  ugliest  —  he 
would  not  be  exposing  himself  to  any  such 
risks. 


, 

arth 


THREE  DIALOGUES  301 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  No,  they  generally  take  good 
care  of  themselves. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  There  would  be  no  fear  that  she 
might  lose  her  husband  before  they  had  been 
married  a  year  perhaps. 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  No  fear !    You  mean  no  hope. 

MRS  BLAKE  (rather  warmly) :  Really  I  think 
you  let  your  tongue  run  away  with  you.  You 
cannot  seriously  mean — 

LADY  ROTHEN  (with  equal  warmth]  \  I  assure 
you  that  whatever  you  may  think  about  it — 

\_At  this  moment  Rupert  Gervis  and  Mrs  and 
Miss  Sturt  come  forward  together^ 

RUPERT  GERVIS  :  Well.  What's  all  the  quarrel 
about  ? 

[Lady  Rothen  and  Mrs  Blake  suddenly  realize 
iv hat  the  quarrel  really  is  aboutl\ 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  Jane,  if  you  tell  him,  I'll  never 
speak  to  you  again. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  I  don't  dream  of  telling  him.  It's 
nothing  that  concerns  you,  my  dear  Rupert ;  at 
least  not  at  present 

RUPERT  :  All  right.  Regular  bag  of  mysteries 
this  house  is  nowadays. 

\He  goes  to  the  doorl\ 

MRS  BLAKE  :  You  are  not  to  go  up  to  Theo. 

RUPERT  (gloomily) :  All  right.  Wasn't  going 
to.  Only  fetching  my  cheque-book. 

MRS  STURT :  He  has  been  kind  enough  to 
promise  us  a  donation  for  one  of  our  charities. 
You  were  more  fortunate  than  I,  Lady  Rothen  ; 
Alicia  was  asleep  when  I  saw  her. 


302 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


LADY  ROTHEN  :  Isn't  she  adorable ! 

MISS  STURT:  To  think  that  there  is  a  new 
little  life  come  into  the  world  ! 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  That  little  bundle  of  flannel- 
how  many  hearts  she  may  break  ! 

MRS  BLAKE  :  She  may  have  an  immense  influ- 
ence over  men. 

MlSS  STURT :  She  may  change  the  map  of 
Europe. 

MRS  STURT  :  She  may  alter  our  theory  of  the 
universe. 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  I  wonder  what  she  would  say 
if  she  could  know  what  lies  before  her.  Here  she 
is,  and  she  doesn't  know  what  is  to  happen  to  her. 
She  was  never  asked  ;  here  she  is — poor  mite ! 
and  she  has  got  to  go  through  with  it.  Really  I 
wonder  what  she  would  say. 

\The  door  opens,  as  Rupert  returns,  envelope  in 
hand.  From  the  upper  storey  of  the  house  is  heard, 
faintly  in  protest,  the  voice  of  Alicia  Theodora  Eltham 
Germs.] 

A.  T.  E.  GERVIS  (in  the  distance) :  Yee-ow,  yee- 
ow,  yee-ow ! 

MRS  BLAKE  :  Nothing  wrong  with  her  lungs,  at 
any  rate. 

RUPERT  (handing  the  envelope  to  Mrs  Sturf)  : 
Here's  that — er — 

MRS  STURT :  Thank  you  so  much.  I  always 
find  it  easy  to  get  money  from  people  who  have 
just  had  a  great  joy  or  a  great  sorrow.  I  wonder 
why  it  is. 

RUPERT  :  Reason  upset,  I  suppose. 


THREE  DIALOGUES  303 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  I  expect  he  adores  the  child, 
doesn't  he  ? 

RUPERT  :  If  I  may  be  allowed  an  opinion,  he 
doesn't. 

ALL  :  What ! 

RUPERT  :  No,  I'm  not  particularly  fond  of  it. 
I'm  naturally  slow  and  I  don't  know  it  well  enough. 
I  shall  get  fond  of  it,  but  I  can't  manage  the 
instantaneous  enthusiasm  and  interest  that  you  all 
can.  You've  settled  its  marriage  already,  haven't 
you? 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  There  may  have  been  some- 
thing said. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  I  didn't  know  you  were  listening. 

RUPERT :  Wasn't.  Conjectured  it.  You've 
mapped  out  a  career  for  her.  You've  settled 
whether  she  is  to  be  buried  or  cremated,  and  how 
she  ought  to  leave  any  property  of  which  she  may 
have  a  disposing  power.  The  way  of  a  woman 
with  a  baby  astounds  me,  especially  when  it's 
somebody  else's  baby.  How  do  you  manage  to 
fall  in  love  instantaneously  with  a  three-day-old 
infant  who  talks  like  this  ? 

[He  opens  the  door.'] 

A.  T.  E.  GERVIS  (in  the  distance) :  Yee-ow,  yee- 
ow,  yee-ow ! 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  We  are  just  going,  if  you 
would  like  to  run  up,  Jane,  to  see  that  everything 
is  all  right. 

MRS  BLAKE  :  I  confess  that  I  didn't  quite  like 
the  sound  of  that  cry. 

RUPERT  :  Nor  did  I. 


304  STORIES  IN  GREY 

MRS  BLAKE  :  It  sounded  to  me  as  if  the  child 
were  in  pain.  I  think  I  should  like  to  reassure 
myself.  But  don't  go. 

LADY  ROTHEN  :  Must,  unfortunately. 

[Good-byes.  Kiss-pecking.  Mrs  Blake  goes  up  to 
the  nursery.  Rupert  with  almost  indecent  alacrity 
scoops  Lady  Rothen  into  her  brougham,  removes  the 
two  Sturts,  who  will  walk,  and  closes  the  front  door. 
He  surveys  the  empty  hall.'] 

RUPERT  :  Coast  clear?     That's  all  right. 

[He  slithers  stealthily  and  rapidly  up  the  stairs  to 
TheJs  room.] 

MARRIAGE 

[The  scene  is  a  bleak  hill  surmounted  by  a  ruined  chapel, 
outside  a  provincial  town.  It  is  a  clear  day  in  spring,  the 
air  still  and  the  sun  shining.  One  can  see  the  housetops 
and  the  church-spire  in  the  valley  below,  and  hear  an 
inordinate  sound  of  joyous  bells.  A  man  (Edward  Hearne, 
to  be  precise)  with  a  dead-beat  face,  a  worn,  blue  serge  suit- 
a  briar  pipe,  which  he  is  smoking  too  fast  and  biting  too 
hard,  an  age  of  twenty-five  years,  and  an  artistic  tempera- 
ment, has  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  hill  in  search  of  soli- 
tude ;  so  also  has  a  woman  (Anna  Larose,  to  be  accurate) 
who  has  twenty  years,  was  awake  all  last  night  and  crying 
most  of  the  time,  and  is  beautiful  on  fire-and-darkness  lines. 
As  he  turns  the  corner  of  the  chapel  he  meets  her,  to  the 
disgust  of  both.  She  really  smiles,  and  he  contorts  his 
mouth  with  a  similar  purpose,  but  a  different  result.  They 
shake  hands.] 

ANNA:  What?    You? 

EDWARD  :  Y-yes.     I  suppose  so. 

ANNA:  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Mrs 
Gervis  hasn't  requested  the  pleasure  of  the  assist- 
ance of  Mr  Hearne  at  the  marriage  of  her  daughter, 
Alicia  Theodora  Eltham— and  all  the  rest  of  it  ? 


THREE  DIALOGUES  305 

EDWARD  :  Oh,  yes,  I  was  asked  ! 

ANNA:  But  you  surprise  me.  I've  met  you  at 
their  house  so  often,  and  it  was  always  thought 
that  you  and  Alicia  were  such  good  friends. 

EDWARD  :  Very  good  friends. 

ANNA  :  Then  why  aren't  you  there  ? 

EDWARD  :  In  case  you  meet  any  of  them,  and 
hear  my  name  mentioned,  I  am  at  the  present 
moment  in  London,  whither  I  have  been  summoned 
by  Messrs  Agnew  to  settle  about  the  sale  of  one 
of  my  pictures. 

ANNA  :  But  you  are  not  in  London. 

EDWARD  :  If  we  are  going  to  be  accurate, 
neither  have  I  sold  a  picture,  neither  am  I  likely 
to  sell  a  picture,  neither  have  Messrs  Agnew  ever 
heard  of  me,  nor  would  it  make  the  least  differ- 
ence to  them  if  they  had. 

ANNA  :  What  an  unnecessarily  elaborate  fib ! 

EDWARD  :  Yes,  I  know  it's  not  good.  Men  get 
so  little  practice. 

ANNA  :  And  the  real  reason  why  you  are  here 
instead  of  being  in  your  place  in  the  church  is  that 
the  artistic  temperament  loathes  the  big  social 
function. 

EDWARD  :  The  real  reason  why  I  am  here  is 
that  I  wanted  to  be  alone. 

ANNA  (not  in  the  least  angry ,  but  recognizing 
that  her  self-respect  requires  that  she  shall  not  take 
this  tamely} :  I  was  just  going  on,  in  any  case.  It 
was  not  necessary  to  be  insufferable. 

EDWARD :  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  hardly  know 
what  I'm  saying  this  morning.  Do,  please,  stop. 


306  STORIES  IN  GREY 

ANNA  :  If  I  am  to  stop,  it  will  perhaps  occur  to 
you  that  I  also  may  wish  to  be  alone. 

EDWARD  (with  a  sig!i) :  All  right ;  I'll  go  if  you 
like.  I  hate  the  world  this  morning,  and  I  think 
you  know  why.  But  I  wish  you  would  let  me  stay 
with  you.  Down  in  the  street  or  in  some  infernal 
drawing-room  I  should  be  civil  enough,  and  say 
the  usual  things  about  croquet  and  so  on.  But 
here  we  are  a  woman  and  a  man  out  of  the  world, 
and  you  were  one  of  her  best  friends,  and — 

ANNA:  As  you  wish.  Stop  if  you  will.  I'm 
horribly  tired ;  can't  you  find  somewhere  where 
we  can  sit  down. 

EDWARD  :  Yes,  you  look  tired.     Will  this  do  ? 

[He  indicates  a  low  fiat  tombstone.  They  sit 
down.] 

ANNA  :  That  will  do  beautifully.  What  a  view 
one  gets  from  here!  And  the  air's  so  soft  and 
clear  to-day. 

EDWARD  (perfunctorily}  :  Yes. 

ANNA :  Oh,  I  know  what  you  want  to  talk  about, 
of  course  !  But  what  is  the  use  ?  The  time's  past. 
They're  in  the  vestry  by  now,  asking  where  they 
are  to  sign  their  names.  If  you  loved  Alicia,  why 
didn't  you  tell  her  so?  Why  didn't  you  marry 
her? 

EDWARD  :  Instead  of  leaving  her  to  that  brute. 

ANNA  :  He  is  not  a  brute. 

EDWARD  :  Oh,  no  !  Excellent  young  man  ! 
Will  be  a  baronet  one  of  these  days.  I  did  not 
tell  her  because  I  loved  her.  There  was  never  the 
ghost  of  a  chance  for  me.  While  I  said  nothing  I 


THREE  DIALOGUES  307 

could  still  hang  on  and  hang  on.  If  I  had  spoken, 
that  would  have  ended  everything  at  once.  I  was 
happy  enough ;  I  never  expected  her  to  care 
about  me ;  I  was  content  as  long  as  she  did  not 
care  about  some  other  man. 

ANNA:  Even  if  she  had  cared  about  you,  you 
could  not  have — well,  as  we're  speaking  plainly, 
you  know  her  people  would  never  have  permitted  it. 

EDWARD  :  If  she  had  cared  for  me  they  couldn't 
have  stopped  it.  I've  not  been  stopped  by  my 
circumstances ;  I  have  been  stopped  by  myself. 
That  would  be  humiliating  if  I  had  ever  had  any 
pride.  I  was  the  hopeless  detrimental.  By  all  the 
rules  of  the  game  I  ought  to  be  handsome  and 
accomplished  and  beloved  ;  and  my  rival,  as  he  is 
wealthy  and  a  germ  of  a  baronet,  ought  to  be 
hideous,  and  old,  and  stupid,  and  she  ought  to  be 
marrying  him  against  her  will  at  the  instigation  of 
an  ambitious  mother.  The  reverse  is  the  case. 
Why,  he's  an  abominably  handsome  man. 

ANNA  :  Do  you  think  so  ? 

EDWARD  :  Of  course.     Don't  you  ? 

ANNA  :  He's  not  bad-looking. 

EDWARD  :  Then  he  has  all  the  accomplishments. 
The  poor  and  lowly  born  ought  according  to  all 
the  stories  to  come  out  strongly  here.  .What 
rubbish !  Accomplishments  mean  education,  and 
education  means  money.  I  can't  shoot,  or  ride,  or 
fence,  and  I  have  the  cheek  to  call  myself  a  man. 
There  is  not  a  single  thing  that  I  can  think  of  that 
I  can  do,  except  paint ;  and  a  good  many  people 
would  tell  you  that  I  can't  do  that. 


308  STORIES  IN  GREY 

ANNA :  Do  you  really  think  him  so  very 
accomplished  ? 

EDWARD  :  Haven't  I  just  said  so? 

ANNA  :  So  you  did.    Go  on. 

EDWARD  :  And  he's  also  a  good  fellow.     I  don' 
suppose  he's  much  more  of  a  saint  than  other  men. 

ANNA  (indignantly):  How  dare  you  say  that? 
It's  the  cowardly  thing  men  always  say  when  they 
meet  a  better  man  than  themselves.  One  has 
only  to  look  at  him  to — 

EDWARD:  Well? 

ANNA  :  Leave  it ;  go  on. 

EDWARD  :  I  didn't  mean  to  imply  that  he 
forged  cheques  or  picked  pockets.  I'm  not 
interested  enough  in  him  to  want  to  do  him  an 
injustice.  That's  honest ;  it's  not  affectation.  My 
trouble  is  not  that  she  has  married  him,  but  that 
she  should  have  married  anybody.  A  moment 
ago,  when  I  was  laboriously  doing  him  justice, 
commending  his  points,  you  did  not  seem  to 
believe  me ;  but  when  I  hint  at  the  possibility  of 
spots  on  the  sun,  you  turn  again  and  rend  me. 
What  can  I  say  to  please  you  ? 

ANNA:  Nothing;  nothing  can  please  me.  I 
know  you  have  suffered,  though  you  speak 
flippantly  or  even  cynically,  but  I  can  hardly  pity 
you.  It  is  your  own  fault.  You  must  have 
known  that  she  would  marry :  you  can't  have 
supposed  that  your  silly  philandering  could  go 
on  for  ever. 

EDWARD:  It  was  not  silly,  and  it  was  not 
philandering,  and  I  did  not  suppose  it  could  go 


THREE  DIALOGUES  309 

on  for  ever.  But  though  the  child  knows  that 
its  bun  is  finite,  it  is  none  the  happier  when  it 
has  finished  it ;  and  though  I  knew  somewhere  at 
the  back  of  my  head  that  she  would  marry,  I 
shirked  thinking  about  it.  One  does  not  care  to 
think  of  the  fall  of  an  angel. 

ANNA  :  Spare  me  the  rhapsodies.  You  should 
have  spoken  to  her — 

EDWARD:  We've  been  through  all  that.  Do 
you  yourself  think  she  could  ever  have  cared  for 
me? 

ANNA!  Oh,  I  don't  know.  She  thought  that 
you  could  paint.  She  told  me  so  once. 

EDWARD:  Did  she?  What  were  her  words? 
How  did  she  say  it?  Oh,  what  does  it  matter! 
Even  if  I  could  paint,  what  would  it  matter  ? 
Women  don't  love  men  for  that. 

[A  long  pause.  Anna  sits  with  her  head  resting 
on  her  hands^  looking  far  into  the  blue.  Edward 
paces  to  and  fro  miserably ',  but  sits  down  again 
when  she  speaks  I\ 

ANNA  :  Did  you  send  anything? 

EDWARD  :  A  wedding-present  ?  Yes.  Silver 
candlesticks. 

ANNA:  You  should  have  sent  one  of  your 
pictures. 

EDWARD  :  Too  personal.  And  what  did  you 
give  them  ? 

ANNA  (unshrinkingly) :  Fish-slice. 

EDWARD:  Why? 

ANNA :  Is  there  anything  more  unromantic 
than  a  fish-slice  ? 


3io  STORIES  IN  GREY 

EDWARD  :  No. 

ANNA  :  Well,  that's  why. 

EDWARD:  Oh!  (There  is  another  long  pause. 
The  sound  of  cheering  comes  faintly  up  from  the 
valley  below.  A  look  of  irritation  passes  over  his 
face  as  he  hears  it.  White  butterflies  dance  in  the 
sun,  and  he  watches  them.  Suddenly  he  speaks] 
Lord,  what  a  beautiful  day  for  the  sacrifice ! 
Why  are  the  wedding  ceremonies  performed  in 
public  ? 

ANNA  (impatiently] :  Oh,  I  don't  know ! 

EDWARD :  It's  appalling,  Alicia  and  that  brute 
beside  her  with  everybody  in  the  church  staring 
— Alicia  in  the  newspapers — Alicia  all  in  white, 
with  her  train  of  bridesmaids — why,  what  am  I 
saying?  You  were  to  have  been  the  first  brides- 
maid yourself.  Why — 

ANNA  :  No,  no.    That's  wrong. 

EDWARD  :  I'm  sure  I  was  told  so. 

ANNA  :  People  say  anything. 

EDWARD  :  But  you're  not  there.  Good  Heavens  ! 
Why  didn't  that  strike  me  before  ?  Not  even  there ! 
I  go  on  talking  about  myself,  and — well  ? 

ANNA  :  You  don't  think  that  a  father,  a  mother, 
two  sons,  and  a  daughter,  are  about  enough  from 
one  house ;  that  the  other  daughter  hadn't  better 
stop  at  home  or  go  for  a  walk  ? 

EDWARD  :  No,  Miss  Larose,  not  in  this  case. 
You  ought  not  to  have  absented  yourself;  you 
were  her  best  friend  almost,  weren't  you  ? 

ANNA:  That's  a  strong  phrase;  I  can't  say. 
Talk  about  yourself  again. 


THREE  DIALOGUES  311 

EDWARD  :  I'm  an  insufferable,  unmanly,  un- 
attractive fool,  and  I've  had  the  cheek  to  break 
my  heart  just  as  if  I  were  somebody.  There's  the 
last  word  about  me.  Pass  on.  Alicia  ? 

ANNA  (scornfully) :  Oh,  spare  me !  I  know  the 
colour  of  her  eyes  and  hair,  and  how  long  she 
takes  to  do  it  as  a  general  thing.  Pass  Alicia. 

EDWARD  :  Then  we'll  discuss  the  bridegroom- 
brute. 

ANNA  (sharply)  :  No. 

EDWARD  :  Why  not  ? 

ANNA  :  I  said  no.     Leave  it,  please. 

EDWARD  :  Then  we  return  to  you  again.  Why 
are  you  not  at  the  wedding  ?  Oh,  happy  thought ! 
You  are  in  the  same  position  as  I  am  ;  you  are 
smitten  with  the  charms  of  the  noble  and  high- 
souled  bridegroom.  You  are  the  maid  that  never 
told  her  love,  but  let  the  worm  of  something  or 
other — never  could  remember  quotations  —  play 
the  deuce  with  her  damask  cheek.  Your  aching 
heart — (He  stops  suddenly^  seeing  the  look  on  her 
face>  and  realizing  that  unconsciously  and  un- 
intentionally his  stupid  gibe  has  hit  right  home) — 
I  beg  your  pardon,  I'd  no  idea,  I'm  terribly  sorry 
How  can  I  have  made  such  a  brutal  blunder? 
Anna,  for  God's  sake,  don't  cry !  Forgive  me ! 

ANNA  (rising  to  her  feet):  I  am  not  going  to 
cry.  I  forgive  you.  You  never  meant  to  hurt  me. 
I  know  that.  After  all,  why  shouldn't  you  know  ? 
I  would  sooner  cut  my  tongue  out  than  tell  a 
woman  ;  I  would  sooner  hold  my  hand  in  the  fire 
than  let  a  woman  know.  But  we  are  in  the  same 


312  STORIES  IN  GREY 

condemnation,  aren't  we?  And  I  feel  what  you 
said  just  now,  that  we  are  out  of  the  world  up 
here  on  this  hill-top,  and  can  say  things  that  we 
should  never  have  dreamed  of  in  the  streets  below. 
Why,  it's  almost  like  being  dead.  Afterwards 
when  we  come  down  from  here,  never  speak  of  it 
again  to  me.  It  was  not  his  fault ;  thank  God,  he 
never  knew  !  He  won't  be  able  to  talk  me  over 
with  Alicia  at  least.  Oh,  how  tired  I  am,  how*tired 
I  am. 

EDWARD  (thoughtfully)  \  I  wonder  if  there  is 
anything  that  I  could  say — no,  no. 

ANNA  :  Edward — I  don't  think  I  ever  called 
you  by  that  name  before  —  shall  we  be  real 
friends  ? 

EDWARD  :  Yes,  dear.  Always.  (He  takes  her 
hand  and  kisses  it.}  It  will  all  be  over  by  now, 
shall  I  take  you  home  ? 

[They  go  down  the  hill  in  silence  and  hand  in 
hand.  Sometimes  they  slip  a  little  on  the  close- 
cropped  turf,  but  they  feel  more  than  mortal  all  the 
same.  They  pause  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.] 

ANNA  :  I  shall  tell  them  that  the  walk  has  quite 
cured  my  headache.  Don't  come  any  further  with 
me,  please.  Mamma  is  asking  you  for  the  6th, 
dinner.  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  come. 

EDWARD  :  It  will  give  me  much  pleasure. 

ANNA  :  Good-bye,  Mr  Hearne. 

EDWARD  :  Good-bye,  Miss  Larose. 


THREE  DIALOGUES  313 


DEATH 

[The  scene  is  the  dining-room  at  No.  23  Alberto  Parade, 
Hoxley-on-Sea,  where  the  Rev.  James  Theodore  Blake  has 
a  curacy.  He  is  considered  to  have  married  beneath  him. 
The  oval  table  is  laid  for  breakfast.  At  one  side  Mrs  Blake 
presides  over  a  block-tin  percolator  and  two  plain  and 
practical  cups,  flanked  by  a  milk-jug  of  a  different  pattern. 
She  has  thirty-nine  years,  eleven  stone  eight,  a  double 
chin,  no  corsets— these  will  occur  later  in  the  morning — and 
a  pale  blue  dressing-gown  that  is  due  at  the  cleaner's. 
James  has  a  weak,  thin  face,  and  gazes  abstractedly  at  a 
hot-water  dish  surmounted  by  a  pewter  cover.  He  bends 
towards  it  and  closes  his  eyes.] 

JAMES  :  Benedictus,  benedicat !  (He  lifts  the 
pewter  cover  and  turns  to  his  wife)  Have  you  any 
preference,  Edith? 

EDITH :  There's  not  much  difference  between 
kippers.  Give  me  the  smallest. 

JAMES  :  The  smaller. 

EDITH  :  Smaller  then.  I  seem  put  off  my 
appetite  this  morning. 

JAMES :  I  don't  think  that  is  a  very  happy 
phrase,  is  it,  Edith  ? 

EDITH  :  Oh,  do  keep  your  temper,  James !  I  do 
my  best,  but  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day.  These 
things  slip  out.  Why  don't  you  open  your  letters  ? 
(Bitterly.}  There  may  be  a  fortune  in  'em. 

[As  he  speaks  he  opens  his  letters  one  by  one.] 

JAMES :  Barkham,  for  the  kitchen  sink,  two  and 
three. 

EDITH  :  Barkham  knows  how  to  stick  it  on.  I 
could  have  done  it  myself  if  I'd  had  a  cane. 

JAMES  :  Barkham  was  here  only  twenty  minutes. 


314  STORIES  IN  GREY 

I  timed  him.     The  Canon  regrets  that  he  will  be 
unable  to  dine  on  Thursday. 

EDITH  :  Well,  that's  something  saved. 

JAMES  :  True.  (At  the  next  letter  he  pauses  and 
puts  his  hand  over  his  eyes.)  Edith,  my  Aunt 
Alicia  is  dead. 

EDITH  :  What  ?    At  last  ? 

JAMES:  Edith! 

EDITH  :  Well,  you  always  said  when  she  died 
our  troubles  would  be  over. 

JAMES:  But  do  not  forget  that  I  have  lost 
an  aunt. 

EDITH  :  No,  of  course  not.  Does  the  letter  say 
anything  ? 

JAMES  :  It  is  from  the  solicitor.  It  appears  that 
I  am  the  residuary  legatee. 

EDITH  :  What  does  that  mean  ? 

JAMES :  I  am  given  to  understand  that  I  inherit 
almost  the  whole  of  her  fortune. 

EDITH  :  Well,  it  never  rains  but  it  pours. 

JAMES  :  You  seem  to  forget  that  I  have  lost  an 
aunt. 

EDITH  :  But  you  only  saw  her  three  times  in 
your  life. 

JAMES  :  An  aunt  is  still  an  aunt. 

EDITH  :  And  she  was  a  Ritualist. 

JAMES  :  But  beneath  these  outward  forms  she 
has  shown  that  she  had  a  strong  sense  of  duty. 
She  has  recognized  that  all  that  we  have  is  only 
held  on  trust,  and  that  it  is  our  duty  to  leave  it 
to  our  nearest  kin.  This  will  be  a  disappointment 
to  the  Wildersons.  I  cannot  profess  to  be  sorry 


THREE  DIALOGUES  315 

in  that  respect.  Yes,  there  is  some  justice  in  this 
imperfect  world  after  all. 

EDITH  :  Oh,  James,  if  you  only  knew  how  happy 
I  feel ! 

JAMES  :  Must  I  say  it  again  ?  I  have  lost  a 
dear  aunt. 

EDITH  :  Yes  !  Oh,  yes  !  I'm  sure  I  feel  that  too. 
What  you  must  do,  James,  is  to  keep  yourself  up. 
It's  not  a  question  of  expense  any  more,  and 
however  reluctant  you  may  be,  you  must  not  let 
yourself  break  down.  Think  what  a  lot  of  business 
is  going  to  be  thrown  on  your  hands.  In  that  case, 
I  think  one  kipper  is  an  insufficient  breakfast  for  a 
man.  Now,  even  against  your  own  inclination 
couldn't  you — 

JAMES  :  I  should  never  have  thought  of  it  it 
you  had  not  mentioned  it.  You  are  always  so 
practical,  Edith,  I  leave  that  branch  entirely  to 
you.  Shall  we  say  an  egg,  boiled  or  poached, 
whichever  gives  the  least  trouble  ? 

EDITH  :  I'll  run  and  poach  a  couple  of  eggs 
for  you  myself.  The  gel's  upstairs  with  the 
children. 

JAMES :  Do  not  say  gel.  Say  the  servant,  or 
call  her  by  her  name,  Martha. 

EDITH  :  What  a  one  you  are  for  grammar ! 
Martha,  then.  Now,  I'll  be  off.  And  here's 
Hector  come  to  say  good-morning. 

[As  she  goes  out  Hector  enters.  He  is  a  re- 
markably plain  boy  of  nine^  with  a  very  solemn  de- 
meanour, suggesting  great  age.  He  shakes  hands 
with  his  father^ 


3i6  STORIES  IN  GREY 

HECTOR  :  Good-morning,  father.  Is  there  any- 
thing of  importance  in  the  paper  this  morning  ? 

JAMES :  I  have  not  yet  opened  the  paper  this 
morning.  My  attention  has  been  occupied  with 
some  sad  news,  which  has  just  reached  me  by  post. 
A  dear  aunt  of  mine  has  just  passed  away. 

HECTOR:  Oh!  Let  me  see;  your  aunt  would 
be  my  great-aunt. 

JAMES  :  Yes,  my  boy.  She  was  your  great-aunt 
Alicia. 

HECTOR :  I  do  not  remember  that  I  ever  met 
her,  and  the  relation  does  not  seem  to  be  very 
close;  don't  you  think  that,  under  the  circum- 
stances, it  would  be  enough  if  I  had  a  black  band 
on  the  sleeve  of  my  light  suit.  I  suggest  it 
because  I  know  we  are  not  rich,  and  the  expense 
of  a  new  black  suit  is  considerable.  The  money 
might  be  spent  in  other  ways  that  I  could  tell  you  of. 

JAMES  :  No,  Hector,  I  wish  you  to  be  dressed  in 
complete  mourning.  You  are  so  much  older  than 
your  years,  that  I  may  mention  to  you  what,  in  an 
ordinary  way,  a  father  would  not  discuss  with  a 
boy  of  nine ;  by  the  death  of  my  Aunt  Alicia  I 
became  a  rich  man,  and  am  intending  to  give  up 
this  curacy  and  to  adopt  a  style  of  life  more  in 
accordance  with  the  means  that  Providence  has 
been  pleased  to  bestow  on  me.  The  price  of  your 
new  clothes  is  a  matter  no  longer  of  any  great 
importance. 

HECTOR:  Oh?  (He  reflects  a  minute  and  then 
puts  his  question  somewhat  bluntly?)  Are  you  more 
sorry  she's  dead,  or  more  glad  you're  rich  ? 


THREE  DIALOGUES  317 

JAMES  :  How  can  you  ask  such  a  question  ? 

HECTOR  :  Well,  I  didn't  know. 

JAMES  :  The  loss  of  an  aunt  must  inevitably 
— ah  !  there's  your  mother. 

[Edith  enters  with  the  poached  and  supplemental 
eggs  on  a  very  hot  plate^  which  she  is  anxious  to  put 
down  quickly '.] 

EDITH  :  There,  James.  Two  beauties.  Mind 
the  plate.  I've  pretty  nigh  burnt  my  hands  off 
with  it. 

JAMES:  Thank  you.  You  are  very  good.  I 
shall  enjoy  these.  Hector,  go  outside  for  a 
moment.  {Hector  goes  out.)  Don't  say  "pretty 
nigh,"  my  dear ;  say  "  very  nearly." 

EDITH  :  All  right,  dear.  Very  nearly.  (Calling.) 
You  can  come  in  again,  Hector. 

HECTOR  (from  without) :  It  is  time  I  went  up 
to  take  the  children  in  the  multiplication  table. 

EDITH  :  What  a  good  boy  he  is  !  Not  a  bit  like 
other  boys  !  Really,  he  is  a  great  help,  and  there's 
nothing  he  won't  do.  He  is  working  a  pair  of 
slippers  for  himself.  Wonderful ! 

JAMES  :  When  I  have  recovered  from  the  blow 
which  I  received  this  morning,  it  will  be  some 
pleasure  to  think  that  we  shall  be  able  now  to  put 
the  education  of  the  children  on  a  different  basis. 
Hector  must  go  to  school,  ultimately  to  Eton. 
The  younger  children  will  have  a  governess.  I 
shall  in  all  probability  accept  a  college  living  where 
the  income  is  practically  nothing — that  is  of  no 
importance  to  us — but  the  vicarage  is  large  and 
situated  in  a  pretty  country.  There  will  be 


3i8  STORIES  IN  GREY 

an  ample  garden  and  so  forth.  I  shall  look  out 
for  a  place  where  the  work  is  light,  and  I  shall 
employ  a  curate.  I  shall  in  that  way  have  leisure 
for  those  literary  pursuits  which  are  most  to  my 
taste,  and  perhaps  are  more  valuable  than  purely 
parochial  work.  I  have  sometimes  felt  that  at 
present  I  am  a  razor  used  for  cutting  wood. 

EDITH  :  That's  true  enough,  I'm  sure. 

JAMES :  Even  the  little  I  have  been  able  to  find 
time  for  has  not  been  without  promise  and  profit. 

EDITH  :  You  mean  what  you  write  for  the 
papers  ? 

JAMES:  I  have  made  on  an  average  seven 
shillings  from  the  Comic  Halfpennyworth  alone.  I 
have  also  had  occasional  work  in  the  Children's 
Sunday ',  the  editor  of  which  says  he  will  always  be 
glad  to  consider  anything  of  mine.  And  you  must 
remember,  Edith,  that  has  been  done  under  very 
trying  circumstances.  There  has  been  the  worry 
about  money,  and  I  have  no  working  room,  and 
my  time  has  been  very  limited,  and  I  have  suffered 
from  the  want  of  a  proper  holiday.  When  I  start 
work  in  a  spacious  and  well-furnished  library, 
looking  out  on  to  beautiful  grounds,  invigorated  by 
good  food,  refreshed  by  a  long  holiday  on  the 
Continent  every  year,  without  a  care,  not  over- 
worked, taking  riding  exercise  every  afternoon— 

EDITH  :  Oh,  James ! 

JAMES :  Then  I  think  I  may  be  able  to  produce 
something  in  comparison  with  which  what  has 
gone  before  will  seem  but  child's  play. 

EDITH  :  Oh,  James  !  Shall  we  keep  a  horse  then  ? 


THREE  DIALOGUES  319 

JAMES  :  Our  position  will  make  it  essential  that 
we  shall  keep  horses,  and  there  will  be  a  pony  for 
the  children  as  well,  I  hope.  But  in  the  meantime 
there  is  much  to  be  done.  You  must  order  mourn- 
ing for  yourself  and  the  children.  Let  it  be  plain 
but  of  the  best  quality.  It  should  be  put  in  hand 
this  morning.  I  must  go  up  North  to-night ;  the 
solicitor  wishes  to  see  me  about  the  funeral ;  in 
fact,  I  gather  that  the  whole  matter  is  left  more  or 
less  in  my  hands. 

EDITH  :  Poor  James  !  I  don't  envy  you  the  long 
journey  in  a  wretched  third-class — 

JAMES  :  Under  the  circumstances  I  shall  go  by 
sleeping-saloon. 

EDITH:  Oh  (timidly) \  You  don't  think  there 
will  be  any  difficulty  about  ready  money  ?  Of 
course  it's  coming,  but  still — 

JAMES :  The  solicitor  will  advance  anything 
that  I  may  require.  He  implies  as  much  in  his 
letter,  and  puts  it  very  delicately.  I  shall  certainly 
employ  him.  Tact,  that  is  what  one  wants  in  a 
solicitor. 

EDITH  :  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  should  open  my 
eyes  and  find  it  all  a  dream. 

JAMES  :  Alas  !  It  is  no  dream.  She  has  gone. 
The  end  was  peaceful.  She  was  eighty-three ;  I 
shall  never  shake  her  by  the  hand  again. 

EDITH  :  You  were  never  what  could  be  called 
intimate,  though,  were  you  ?  It's  not  as  if — 

JAMES  :  An  aunt  must  always  be  an  aunt. 

EDITH  :  Well,  yes. 

JAMES  :     I   trust   I   shall   bear  the  blow  with 


320 


STORIES  IN  GREY 


fortitude  and  resignation.  But  the  tie  of  blood  is 
a  very  real  one.  She  has  shown  that  herself. 
During  her  life  the  Wildersons  saw  far  more  of 
her  than  I  did,  but  at  the  last  the  claim  of  relation- 
ship told.  I  am  not  sorry  for  the  Wildersons ;  I 
consider  they  did  their  best  to  rob  me. 

[Hector  enters,  wearing  a  pained  expression.] 

HECTOR :  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Henrietta 
refuses  to  learn  anything,  and  has  been  impertinent. 

EDITH  :  You  run  along.  I  dare  say  if  the  truth 
were  known  there  are  faults  on  both  sides. 

HECTOR:  I  hope  not. 

EDITH  :  Well,  I'll  come  in  a  minute. 

HECTOR  :  Thank  you.     (He goes  out.) 

EDITH  :  I  suppose  I  may  write  to  my  two 
sisters. 

JAMES:  Certainly. 

EDITH  :  They'll  like  to  hear  the  good  news — I 
mean  I  must  break  it  to  them  about  your  Aunt 
Alicia. 

JAMES  :  I  think  the  latter  is  the  better  way  of 
expressing  it.  You  must  remember  that  money  is 
not  everything. 

EDITH  :  No,  James.  I  shall  be  better  able  to 
see  that  now. 

[She  goes  out.  James  rises  from  the  table  and 
paces  to  and  fro.  His  expression  is  one  of  gravity 
and  solemnity.  As  his  thoughts  flit  on  the  expression 
changes \  giving  place  to  a  broad  and  ecstatic  smile. 
He  rubs  his  large,  fat  hands  softly  together^ 


COLSTONS  LIMITED,    PRINTERS,    EDINBURGH 


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